


One Day

by OnceSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anniversaries, Canon Compliant, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Parentlock, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, basically the whole show in a nutshell, minor cases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-01-31 07:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12676905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnceSherlock/pseuds/OnceSherlock
Summary: John Watson didn't know that his whole life could change in one day.This fic follows John through one day each year, the anniversary of the day he met Sherlock.





	1. 2010

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the eponymous novel One Day by David Nicholls. It's completely canon-compliant until the end of season 4, so if you don't like fics where Mary is forgiven or where Sherlock's evil sister actually exists (even though I tried to avoid mentioning her), this might not be the story for you. 
> 
> This wouldn't have been possible without my wonderful beta [brainless_septiclock](https://brainless-septiclock.tumblr.com/) who has become not only a constant support but a dear friend.

I woke up this morning gasping for air, panting. I don’t wake up every day, sometimes just lying in bed the whole night and waiting for the next day to arrive. I’m not particularly bothered by that, because I know what awaits me when I do fall asleep. Like last night. I dreamed about Afghanistan again, and woke up terrified and drenched in sweat. It’s not how it really used to be over there, in my dreams. Back then, I think I felt more alive in the face of death than ever. It’s hard to explain if you haven’t experienced it. The dreams are different, however. In the dream, I only ever feel pain. Afterwards, I just sat on the bed in this stupid room that is now mine. Will it ever feel like home? I don’t think so. I tried to write something on the blog that my therapist had advised me to make. What a bad idea that was. I just sat there and stared at the screen, probably looking like a bloody lunatic. It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do, so I try to follow her advice, but it’s not helping at all. Why do people even think there’s something that could help me? I don’t need help. I just need…something.

 

“How’s your blog going?” Ella asks later, during our session. She suggested we use each other’s first names. Probably thinks I’m gonna open up more or something.

“Yeah good,” I say. It’s a lie. She probably knows that. I try anyway. I clear my throat. “Very good.” Is that more convincing? Why is this bloody blog so important to her?

“You haven’t written a word, have you?” she asks. No, I haven’t. She, on the other hand, has written quite a lot.

“You just wrote ‘still has trust issues’.” What’s that supposed to mean? What does me not writing on the blog have to do with trust issues? I’m starting to think that this is a waste of time. 

“And you read my writing upside down.” She gives me a long look. “You see what I mean?”

I don’t answer. Do I know what she means? I don’t think so. 

“John. You’re a soldier. It’s gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.” She says is with care. She’s a nice person, really, but she doesn’t know much about me. How could she? Everything that happens to me? What does she want me to write about, how I drank tea and ate an apple this morning? Or how I limped to the supermarket yesterday?

“Nothing happens to me.”

***

Later that day, I decide to take a walk to the park. It wasn’t really a conscious decision. Sometimes the room just gets a bit too small, and I feel like the gun in the drawer stares at me. So I go out. I like to watch other people, strangers. Watch them enjoy their lives. I envy them, because they do not realise how lucky they are. However, when I actually reach the park, I always want to leave as soon as possible. I don’t like walking around with my cane. I feel like people are staring at me. 

“John? John Watson?” I hear a voice directly behind me. I turn around. A man with glasses and brown hair walks towards me. His face seems familiar. Do I know him?

“Stamford. Mike Stamford, we were at Bart’s together.” Oh. He looked different when we were at Bart’s. A bit… thinner maybe?

“Yes, sorry. Yes, Mike. Hello. Hi.” I shake his hand. He smiles at me. I don’t usually like meeting old acquaintances. They remind me of the life I used to have and never will have again.

“Yeah, I know I’ve got fat.”

“No.”

“I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?” I can’t help but stare at him for a moment. What does he want me to say?

“I got shot,” I say. It’s as simple as that, I guess. 

Mike offers to buy us coffee-to-go and we sit down on a bench together. I think he suggested that because he saw my cane and didn’t want me to stand for too long. I don’t really like to be reduced to my limp, to be constantly reminded of my wounds from the war, but I’m sure he meant it as a nice gesture. An uncomfortable silence settles upon us. When you haven’t seen someone in so long, what do you talk about?

“Are you still at Bart’s, then?” It’s the only thing that comes to my mind.

“I’m teaching there. Yeah, bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them,” he replies. I have to laugh at that. I can’t really imagine Mike being a teacher kind of person, but I think he secretly enjoys it. He’s always been more of a down-to-earth type of guy.

“What about you, just staying in town? Are you getting yourself sorted?” That’s a bloody good question. I try not to think about that too much.

“I can’t afford London on an army pension,” I admit. Eventually, I will have to move to the countryside. Get back to work, obviously not as a soldier but as a doctor. It could be nice, I guess.

“Ah, you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”

“Yeah, I’m not the John Watson,” I reply, probably a bit too snippy. I clench my hand into a fist. I may not know much about my future, but I do know about my past. The war has changed me. I’m not the ‘bright young’ man I used to be. That’s what I know for sure.

“Couldn’t Harry help?” he asks instead. I’m surprised that he remembers her name. It’s not like I saw her often during my time at Bart’s. Probably a bit more than now, but still. I think about my last phone call with her. It ended with one party screaming “arsehole” to which the other party reacted by hanging up. No, Harry’s definitely not an option. 

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.”

Mike seems to really think about that. It’s nice of him to try and help me, but I don’t think there really is a way for me to stay in London. “I don’t know, get a flatshare or something.” is his next suggestion. Ha. What a great idea, Mike.

“Come on, who’d want me for a flatmate?” I smile slightly to cover up the sad truth that lies beneath my statement. I’m not the type of person many people would want to share a flat with. I can’t even resent them. I don’t think I would want me as a flatmate, either.

Mike seems to laugh at that. So he thinks it’s funny, too. “What?” 

“You’re the second person to say that to me today.” He looks at me and starts smiling. Well, that’s interesting. Is there really another person on this planet like me? Maybe I could stay in London after all, if that other person is just as messed up as I am, I think it could work. We could both avoid each other around the flat, it’s not like you spend a lot of time with your flatmates, anyway. We would both have a job, and when we come home in the evenings we would both be exhausted and go to bed. That doesn’t sound too bad.

“Who was the first?”

***

Mike suggests to introduce me to said person right away, a guy who apparently works at Bart’s, too. It’s not a far walk from the park. Mike needs to go back after his lunch break, anyway. Being back at the hospital feels strange. This is a place I used to spend most of my time, I used to have friends here, colleagues, and I even met a couple of my girlfriends here. Being here now makes me feel out of place. I don’t belong here, not anymore. We go through the large corridors of the building until we reach the lab area. Mike holds the door open for me as we enter one of the labs. The room is empty except for a tall man who stands at one of the tables extracting a liquid from a pipette into a petri dish. He has dark curly hair and a very tall and slim figure. He’s probably about my age, maybe a bit younger, his skin is quite pale and he’s wearing a suit (in a lab), which makes him look a bit posh. He seems focused on his task.

“Bit different from my day.” I can’t help myself from saying.

“You’ve no idea,” Mike agrees. The guy looks up at us for a second before returning to his work. His eyes are green (or perhaps blue?).

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine,” he asks in a very deep voice, one you would recognise among thousands.

“What’s wrong with the landline?” Mike wonders.

“I’d rather text.”

“Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

I offer him to use mine instead, which he takes. It’s a bit weird that he’s got no signal, mine seems perfectly fine. He thanks me and approaches to take my phone, then turns back to the table. Is this my potential flatmate, then?

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike explains. The guy isn’t even looking anymore. He’s typing away on my phone with quick fingers. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

Is he talking to me? How does he know about that? “Sorry?” 

He looks up briefly and repeats the question “Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. I’m sorry, how did you –”

Before I can finish the question, a woman in a lab coat enters the room and hands the guy a cup of coffee. She looks nice, a bit shy maybe, with brown hair and an innocent smile on her lips. 

“Ah Molly, coffee, thank you!” The lad says while handing me back my phone. He asks her something about her lipstick, which seems quite rude, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe they are friends. 

When she turns around to leave, the guy asks: “How do you feel about the violin?” I turn around to look at the woman, but she’s already leaving, apparently not feeling like the addressee of the question. Who does he mean, then? Mike? Or me?

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask when Mike doesn’t reply.

He has returned to the table, now typing away on a laptop. “I play the violin when I’m thinking, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” He finally looks up and gives me a quick smile. 

He already knows about the potential flatshare. I wonder briefly how Mike managed to tell him, since we only just got here together and Mike couldn’t have known that we’d bump into each other today, could he? Maybe Mike sent him a text while we were walking over here. 

“Oh, you told him about me?” I ask Mike.

“Not a word.”

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” This whole conversation is beginning to get strange.

“I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for,” he says while putting on his coat. “Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.”

“…how did you know about Afghanistan?” I ask for the second time. 

For the second time, he ignores my question. “I’ve got my eyes on a nice little place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, 7 o’clock. Sorry, I’ve got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary,” he replies while passing me and heading towards the door, as if it was the most natural thing to say. What does he need a riding crop in a mortuary for?! Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

“Is that it?” I ask quickly before he can leave.

“Is that what?”

“We’ve just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?”

“Problem?” I can’t help but smile. There’s something strangely charming about him. He does seem like the perfect flatmate for me, he doesn’t ask too many questions and he doesn’t even mind that we don’t know each other, at all. Still, I have to at least know the address and his name.

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.”

At that, he gives me a quick look. It somehow makes me feel exposed, as if he can read me like an open book. “I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him. Possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

_What the fuck?_ I am too astonished to find an answer.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street.” He winks at me, which gives me a strange feeling in the stomach. “Afternoon,” he adds, nods towards Mike and leaves.

I look over at Mike immediately. “Yeah, he’s always like that,” he says before I have the chance to ask.

***

After Mike and I say our goodbyes, because he had to return to one of his classes and I had to pretend to have an important appointment, I take the tube back to the flat. On my way, I keep thinking about the guy I just encountered. Sherlock Holmes. It’s a silly name, actually, like from another century. He was quite arrogant, now that I’m thinking about it. The way he told the woman that her mouth looked too small, and how he basically told me that my limp was psychosomatic. That’s not something you normally say to someone you just met. He’s probably mad. But he was also strangely likeable, somehow. I keep wondering how he knew so much about my life, I’m usually very closed off when it comes to the relationship with my sister (at least he got something wrong). It’s intriguing. I will definitely look at the flat with him, tomorrow. I think we could work as flatmates. Sometimes you meet someone and you just know that you’ll get along, and, for some reason, I think we will. 

Back in the flat, I check the text he sent from my phone. _If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH._ it says. How strange. I decide to look him up on the internet. It might not be the worst idea to be at least partly prepared. I wonder what he does for a living, because he doesn’t appear to be a chemist or a doctor. The text has to be for someone who has the power to arrest people. Is he a policeman? He didn’t really seem like that, either. My internet search leads me to a website called _The Science of Deduction_ From the website alone I’d assume he’s a private detective, with a mad talent to deduce stuff about other people. That can’t be true, though. He claims to be able to identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. That’s impossible, of course. I guess I’ll have to ask him tomorrow. 

Before I lay down to hopefully get some sleep, I think about my blog. Ella’s not gonna like the fact that it’s still empty. I didn’t really have anything to write about before, but now I do, so I go back to my desk and start writing. Before pressing publish, I hope with slight embarrassment that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t decide to do the same thing and look me up on the internet tonight, because then he’ll most likely find this blog. On the other hand, he already knows more about me than most people and probably doesn’t need the internet for that.

_A strange meeting_

_I don't know how I'm meant to be writing this. I'm not a writer. Ella thought keeping a blog would help but it hasn't because nothing ever happens to me. But today, something did. Something happened._

_I was walking in the park and I bumped into Mike Stamford. We were sort of mates when we were students. We got coffee and I mentioned that I wanted to move. He said he knew of someone in a similar situation. So we went to Barts and he introduced us._

_Except, he didn't. He didn't introduce us. The man knew who I was. Somehow he knew everything about me. He knew I'd served in Afghanistan and he knew I'd been invalided. He said my wound was psychosomatic so he didn't get everything right but he even knew why I was there, despite the fact that Mike hadn't told him._

_I googled him when I got back to the flat and found a link to his website The Science of Deduction ._

_It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange._

_So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise this first chapter is basically a summary of the first part of 1x01, so apologies for that!  
> It will get more creative and interesting, I promise ;)


	2. 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John,” Sherlock says, his voice even deeper than usual. His eyes that currently shine dark blue in the dim light of the hallway stare at me, before he adds “We should leave.”

“John. Joooohn. JOHN!” I open my eyes slowly and turn to look at the watch. 7:55. Either Sherlock needs me to put out a fire or to fetch him the phone from his pocket. “JOHN!” I turn around, crawling further under my bed sheet. It feels warm and cosy and I don’t ever want to leave. “Joohn!” I weigh up the probabilities and decide to get up after all. It’s not like I have much of a choice anyway.

I climb down the stairs still in my pyjamas to find my flatmate curled up on the sofa. “I need you to go to the supermarket and buy the following supplies: crystal iodine, baby powder, a make-up brush with soft bristles and a blue plastic container,” he says with closed eyes. 

“Do you have any idea what time it is? It’s Saturday, bloody hell,” I reply.

“The fact that it’s Saturday does not tell me what time it is, John, although I do blame your slight confusion on your sleeping schedule and your resulted tiredness. You should consider sleeping more regularly.” 

I feel anger crawling up inside me. “Why do you need this stuff right now and why can’t you go get it yourself?” I ask, trying to stay calm. Sherlock has finally opened his eyes and stares at me, raising an eyebrow. I walk over to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. Tea is probably the only thing that’ll help right now.  
“I can’t go myself as I am currently busy thinking,” I hear Sherlock say from the living room. I roll my eyes in response and forego answering verbally. Instead, I make two cups of Earl Grey, add milk to both and sugar to one cup, and return. I place one mug on the coffee table next to the sofa and sit down on my desk to drink from my own. Sherlock still hasn’t moved, but he has his fingers tucked underneath his chin, a pose which I secretly call the ‘thinking-Sherlock’ pose. Maybe I shouldn’t be too harsh with him at the moment, considering what had happened lately. I observe Sherlock, who has apparently drifted off into his mind palace, and can’t help myself from thinking back to the events of New Year’s Eve. Sherlock is probably mad at Irene for lying to him. He grieved her, as far as I can tell, and now it turned out that she faked her own death. Who would do something like that? Of course she wanted my help to return her bloody phone, which is still in Sherlock’s possession. But that’s not the only reason why I keep thinking about that night. Sherlock is probably in love with her. She thought I was jealous because of my anger, but I really wasn’t. I was just worried for my friend, and a bit annoyed at the amount of text messages he had received from her before her faked death. It was 57 messages up until Christmas Eve alone, and who can focus on anything with this stupid text alert noise going off every other minute? It was annoying, that’s all. To be completely honest, I was a tiny bit relieved when Sherlock identified her body, because that meant the playing games thing was finally over, or so I thought. I regretted that thought right away, however, when I found Sherlock at home, silent, playing sad music on his violin and barely eating anything. I know he does that all the time anyway but I’m fairly sure it must have had to do with –

“John?” 

“Sorry, what were you saying?” I am so caught up in my thoughts I didn’t hear him speak again.

“I was wondering if you could go to the supermarket now, as I need the supplies rather urgently.”

I give Sherlock a long look. He stares back at me and for some reason I surrender. “Fine, I’ll go right away if you tell me what you need a make-up brush for. And don’t just tell me it’s for a case.”

“I need access to the phone,” he explains. Christ, so this _is_ about the woman again. I spare myself the time of asking how a make-up brush is gonna help him with that, get up from my chair and up to my room to get dressed. Before leaving the flat I check on Sherlock again, who is lying still on the sofa and apparently lost in his thoughts. I turn around to leave, almost not hearing the quiet “Thank you, John” Sherlock whispers. I clear my throat and head out.

***

The weather is cold and I zip my coat all the way up to prevent the cool air from tickling down my neck. I walk to the nearest Tesco, gather all the supplies and throw some milk into the shopping trolley, as well. I don’t think Sherlock bothered buying any. On my way back to Baker Street, I see a woman walk by wearing red lipstick and a dress (in January?). I can’t help but stare to make sure I didn’t just pass Irene Adler. It isn’t her. Damn that woman. Sherlock had better solve this case sooner than later and we can finally move on from her. I have to think about our conversation at Battersea again. 

_We’re not a couple._

_Yes you are._

Why didn’t I reply to her? Knowing that Sherlock had eavesdropped our conversation was a bit embarrassing at the beginning, but he never mentioned it again. He’d seemed quite sad afterwards, but maybe that was just because she had told me that she was gay. I’m still trying to figure out what she meant with the provocative remark “Look at us both” after I told her I wasn’t gay and before we got interrupted by the stupid text alert noise. I tried to approach the subject to Sherlock later that evening, after the awful incident with Mrs. Hudson, but he didn’t answer. He just said “Happy New Year, John” and started playing the violin. Maybe it’s for the best. Who knows what Sherlock would have said about his feelings for Irene, and what I would have said in response.

Upon re-entering the flat, I hear Sherlock in the kitchen. He’s checking the phone under a microscope and looks up expectantly. I hand him the grocery bag and gesture to the microscope.

“Any success so far?”

Sherlock shakes his head while rummaging around in the bag. “Didn’t they have a blue plastic container at the store?” he asks.

“I’m afraid not. Only the white ones.” I cross my arms and wait. This is not something I want to miss. I watch Sherlock as he carefully scatters some baby powder onto a sheet and dips the make-up brush into it. I am half expecting him to apply the powder to his face when he lifts the phone up with gloves on his long fingers and lightly dabs the powder onto it. He holds the phone close and repeats the process, examining where the powder settles. 

“For god’s sake!” He yells, after apparently not seeing the anticipated result. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to make the fingerprints visible on the buttons she used the most.”

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, use a hacking programme or something?” I suggest.

At that Sherlock finally looks up from the phone to study my face. After a couple of seconds, a brief smile crosses his face, and I brace myself for what comes now. “Oh John, do you really think it never occurred to me to hack a phone with technology? That’s why I rely on baby powder and iodine! It’s not like I already checked the app Copy9 which allows you to hack into someone’s phone and realised that it only works if said phone is already unlocked and neither did I check the Android device manager that can change the pin of a phone but only applies to phones with a pre-installed Google account. I also didn’t try to click the emergency contact button and type in an extremely long password until the phone system crashes and allows me to go to the home screen, which apparently only works with a certain type of android phones suffering from a system error. And I also didn’t – “

“Alright, okay I get it!” I interrupt him. “So what’s the iodine for?” I ask, deliberately trying to change the subject.

“I’m going to use it to hopefully make the fingerprints visible. It’s an old science trick, works almost every time,” he says while simultaneously placing the phone into the white plastic container and scattering the whole bottle of iodine on top. He then closes the container, places one hand underneath and the other hand on top of it and rubs slightly. “Now we need to wait for a couple of minutes. My hands should warm up the iodine.”

I can’t help but stare at the motion he is doing with his hands. If he did something like that with his – no, don’t even think about that. I clear my throat. He really does go through a lot of trouble to access this phone. “Why is that so important to you, anyway? It’s just a bloody phone,” I blurt out.

Sherlock frowns at me, the look of confusion clear on his face. “Because it contains important information concerning national security.”

“But can’t you just hand it to Mycroft and let him deal with it?” I know right away that that was probably the wrong suggestion. I just want the phone out of the flat, I add mentally.

“Mycroft? He couldn’t even deal with this if it had my birthday as a pin code.”

“Well, to be fair, you never told me when your birthday is. So while we’re at it – “

“Look!” Sherlock interrupts. He holds up the container for me to see the violet colour vaporising in it. I can’t help but be amazed. Sherlock carefully extracts the phone from the container and takes a closer look. 

“The fingerprints are definitely on the buttons 3, 4 and 7.” Suddenly the slight smile on his face disappears and he looks up as if just remembering something very important yet disappointing, which he probably does. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“The phone only allows for two incorrect pin entries. With the third entry, the phone will be disabled permanently. I can’t type in every possible combination of these numbers to find out the correct one. Why didn’t I think of this before? Stupid, stupid.” After a minute of consideration, he continues: “I will have to go to Bart’s and work with their equipment. But not today.”

The frustration is audible in his voice. I have to swallow the accusation that I went to Tesco for nothing down and instead try to think of something to cheer him up. “Why don’t we ask Greg to give us a new case? Could be fun.”

“Who?”

I sigh. “Lestrade.”

“Ah, he already offered one via mail this morning, I declined.” 

Oh. So he wants to give his full attention to Irene Adler. Of course. Fine.

“Why?”

“Boring,” he replies. I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. “And I’ve got more important things to do,” Sherlock adds. He gives me a long look, which I do not know how to interpret, and suddenly stands up. 

“I want to stay at home today, if you don’t mind,” he declares and moves over into his chair. I follow him, pick up the book from my desk and sit down in the chair opposite to him. 

“I don’t mind,” I say, but Sherlock is already focusing on the Science magazine in his lap.

***

The rest of the day is interrupted twice, once by Mrs. Hudson bringing up leftover lasagne for lunch and once by Greg offering Sherlock the case again. He comes over in the late afternoon, after having spent the whole day trying to solve it himself.

“Please, Sherlock, we need you!” He begs.

Sherlock is unimpressed. He tries to bury his face even deeper in the magazine he is currently studying and replies “I don’t have time today, Lestrade.”

Greg gives me an expectant look, as if I could explain Sherlock’s behaviour to him. All I can do is shrug with my shoulders. 

“That’s a bloody lie! You’ve probably been sitting in this chair for hours!” He barks while throwing his hands up dramatically.

Sherlock finally looks up from his magazine and looks the DI over. “The body will have to wait until tomorrow, as John and I already have plans for the evening.”

I cannot hide the surprise on my face. What plans? Or is this just some kind of excuse from Sherlock? I raise an eyebrow and search for Sherlock’s eyes so as to engage in nonverbal communication, but he’s staring into the opposite direction. Is he doing that on purpose?

Greg doesn’t seem to notice my confusion in his rage. “Tomorrow is Sunday!” When neither Sherlock nor I respond, he adds through gritted teeth “Well, I hope it’s worth it then. I’ll call you tomorrow.” With that, he turns around and leaves. I shout a goodbye after him, which he probably doesn’t hear.

After he has left, I look up at Sherlock, waiting for an explanation. Either he doesn’t realise that I’m staring at him or he ignores it on purpose, still staring at the door as if Greg just exited. 

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?”

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“We don’t have any plans for tonight, do we?”

“As a matter of fact, John, we do,” Sherlock says, still avoiding to look at me. “We’re going out for dinner.”

Oh, so it is an excuse after all. Of course Sherlock and I go out for dinner quite frequently, especially after cases. We still like the Chinese restaurant he brought me to the night I shot that awful cabbie and saved Sherlock’s life. There’s also a nice French bistro near Baker Street, and sometimes we even settle on sandwiches at Speedy’s. It’s not something we plan ahead for, however, and it’s definitely not something we wouldn’t heartlessly interrupt and abandon for a case (which has already happened more than I can count). I decide to let the subject rest.

After spending the rest of the day watching crap telly and laughing at Sherlock’s deductions of the talk show guests’ private habits, Sherlock gets up from his chair and informs me that we’ll leave at 8 o’clock. While I’m still thinking about what he means by that, my flatmate disappears into his bedroom and closes the door behind him. A look at my watch tells me that it’s already 7:30. So we are going out for dinner after all. Maybe to keep the charade up for Lestrade, although I highly doubt that he’s watching us. Maybe Sherlock just realised he was hungry after inventing the excuse in the first place. Or maybe, just maybe, a tiny voice whispers in the far back of my head, he really just wants to go out for dinner with me. Just in case my latter assumption proves to be correct, I head up to my room to get changed into something a bit less comfortable and more physically appealing. 

***

At exactly 8 o’clock I leave my room and walk down the stairs with a fresh shirt and the dark blue jeans from earlier days that sit a bit too tight. Sherlock is already waiting at the foot of the stairs, and eyes me as I descend them. The whole situation makes me feel like I am awaited by my prom date. I clear my throat. Sherlock wears a suit, as usual, and a tight light blue shirt underneath. I can’t help but stare at the buttons for a second.

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice even deeper than usual. His eyes that currently shine dark blue in the dim light of the hallway stare at me, before he adds “We should leave.”

I follow him down the stairs and out into the night. It has gotten incredibly cold and dark and I’m very thankful for my coat. We walk in silence. Since I do not know where we’re going, I let Sherlock take the lead when the road gets too narrow for the two of us. He has turned his coat collar up against the wind, which makes him look more mysterious than he is probably aware of. After a couple of minutes, I realise where Sherlock is leading me. St James Northumberland Street. This is the street of Angelo’s restaurant, if I recall correctly. We never came here again after that first night. Gosh, that seems like a lifetime ago, when in reality it’s only been… a year? The thought hits me like a train. It was on the 30th of January, one year ago tomorrow, which makes today the one-year anniversary of mine and Sherlock’s first meeting. I can’t believe that I forgot. I look over at Sherlock and my mind starts swirling. Does he know? Is this why he wanted to go out tonight? I try to search for a sign in his expression, but all I can see are his dark eyes staring forward to the restaurant we are approaching.

Inside, Angelo welcomes us warmly and leads us to the exact same table at the window from last year. Sherlock reaches it first. I can see how he quickly picks something up from it and tucks it into his pocket. Was it a small reserved sign? We sit down and Angelo hands us the menu. 

“So,” I say. “We haven’t been here in a long time, have we?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are we here today?” I try to be as indirect as possible, but unfortunately, with someone like Sherlock, it’s never easy to hide your true intentions.

“Would you rather eat somewhere else?” Sherlock asks instead.

“No, no, it’s just…” My eyes meet Sherlock’s and I let the sentence trail off.

“Good.”

After our order Angelo comes back to light up a candle for the table. This time I don’t protest. While I’m still trying to figure out the reason Sherlock brought me here, our food arrives and I realise how hungry I’ve been. I decide to let my thoughts rest for a moment and focus on the dinner instead. Sherlock and I chat about Mrs. Hudson’s latest acquaintance and about my work at the clinic. He explains details of the case Greg offered us today and I tell him that he finally left his wife after Sherlock’s revelation at Christmas. The time passes quickly and we’re really enjoying ourselves. It hasn’t occurred often lately that Sherlock seemed as light-hearted as today and I can’t help but feel warmth spread in my chest. Maybe he isn’t so focused on Irene after all. At one point, I have to giggle at one of Sherlock’s remarks and the thought suddenly hits me that there’s no place I’d rather be right now. 

Maybe I don’t need a Jeanette in my life, at least not at the moment. It’s not like I’ve been thinking much about her since Christmas, anyway. Things are good the way they are, and having a girlfriend doesn’t really match my current way of life. Of course what she said about Sherlock being my boyfriend was complete nonsense, but I cannot deny that he is the person I want to spend my time with. He’s my friend - my best friend. It’s not unusual for best friends to feel this way about each other. 

_You’ll do anything for him_. 

At least with that, Jeanette was right. And there’s a reason for that. Before Sherlock entered my life one year ago today, I was a mess. He turned my life around, gave me something worth living for again. He changed everything. Solving crimes with Sherlock, watching crap telly in the evening, ordering Chinese food, playing Cluedo and laughing at his ridiculous conclusions, drinking tea with Mrs. Hudson and going to the pub with Mike or Lestrade is everything I could have ever hoped for. It’s what I want to do for the rest of my life. I think about what my life looked like only a year ago and realise how happy I am today.

“John, are you alright?” 

“What? Yeah, sure. I’m sorry. I drifted off, apparently.”

“That’s the second time this has happened today. Do I need to worry?”

“Since when do you worry? You don’t have to, I’m just…content,” I respond, and realise immediately how that sounds.

“Fine. That’s… good,” Sherlock replies. He smiles at me but somehow seems sad while saying so. Christ, he’s definitely still upset because of Irene. I should probably say something, as his friend. 

“Sherlock? I… Are you okay?” 

“Of course I’m okay, why wouldn’t I be okay?” He seems confused.

“I don’t know. Just, the woman and everything. What she said at New Year’s Eve.” I make a vague gesture with my hand to point at something that isn’t there.

“I’m not sad because of what she said,” he replies.

“Sherlock, you can be honest with me. Are you… do you have feelings for her?”

At that, Sherlock frowns at me. His eyes shine green in the candle light as he stares at me before answering. “Is that really what you think?”

“Well, I don’t know, maybe, yeah, because you reacted like you were... It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I try to make sense but I think I somehow make it worse, going by Sherlock’s look. Why can’t he just admit it? I can take this. Is he trying to spare my feelings?

“John, if only you knew how utterly wrong you are.” 

“Oh is that so? Because last time I checked, I was the expert on, I quote, ‘emotions and these dull human things’.” 

For a second, I see something in his eyes that could be hurt. 

“Logic is not the absence of emotions. As ever you see, but you do not observe.” He looks away.

“Then explain to me why you’re acting so heart-broken lately.” The words are out before I can take them back. 

Sherlock looks startled. He takes a sip from his drink while scanning me the entire time. He seems to be really thinking about his answer.

“I seem to have misinterpreted someone’s feelings for me and now I’m unsure how to proceed. As you know, I usually never miscalculate,” he finally says. 

So he does have feelings for the bloody woman. And he thought she felt the same, but four weeks ago he found out that she was gay. That’s why he’s heart-broken. I feel a strange mixture of sadness for him, anger for her, and a small pinch of something else for the confirmation. I resign from telling him that feelings are probably the only thing in the world you can’t calculate. Sherlock is still looking at me. For a moment, I allow myself to stare back into his green eyes and try to convey something with mine. _It’s gonna be okay, Sherlock._

“We should go home,” I say abruptly. 

***

 

Before I climb up the stairs to my room, I hear Sherlock approaching behind me. 

“John?” 

“Yes?”

“Do you know what day it is today?”

My heart skips a beat. I turn around to look at him. “Yes, of course I do. Thank you for dinner, Sherlock, I really enjoyed it.” Sherlock doesn’t reply for some time. I should probably turn around and go upstairs, but something is holding me back.

“My pleasure. It was a nice evening, wasn’t it?” Sherlock says after a long pause.

“Yes it was, it definitely was,” I reply. 

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock adds. His voice is deep and close to a whisper.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” I reply, and finally turn around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make this chapter extra fluffy because we all know what John's about to go through in the next two years...


	3. 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was my flatmate, my best friend, he gave me a reason to live in a time when I desperately needed one. Being with him healed me, but it was more than that.

“We need to find the monster, John!”

“Monster? What monster?”

“The hound!” he yells with an annoyed voice. It makes him sound like he has to explain it to a child. “I think I saw it last in Mrs. Hudson’s flat.”

“What? And you’re only telling me this now? We need to find her and see if she’s okay!” I say with a significant amount of anger in my voice. We need to get to Mrs. Hudson as quickly as possible. I look around to see where we’re actually at. This place looks a lot like one of the labs at Bart’s, only that there are tables and chairs everywhere and a waiter has just placed two plates loaded with food next to a microscope. 

“We need to leave! Call a cab,” I demand. He gets up at once, tipping over a candle while doing so, and we jog outside. 

“We shouldn’t bother, John, the hound has probably already killed her,” he pants, trying to keep up with me.

“But… but we have to do something!” I scream. I can already see a cab in the distance, but it’s not getting any closer. I wave at it, but the driver doesn’t see me. What a prat! I look back at him. He only gives me a long look, one that I last saw on him on a bench in Dartmoor, but he doesn’t help me. I start to cry. It’s embarrassing, crying in front of him, I don’t think I’ve ever done it before. I think of poor Mrs. Hudson, who is probably lying dead at Baker Street with a tea cup still in her hand. 

“It’s okay, John. You don’t have to cry.” He pats me on the shoulder and starts to stroke my arm with his hand. I feel that his touch helps to sooth me. “Look, the hound is already here.”

I turn around and see a dog approaching us. It’s very tall, but definitely not a monster. I exhale and start to laugh with relief. There’s no way this harmless dog would’ve been able to kill Mrs. H. All of a sudden, the dog increases its pace and runs towards me. It opens its mouth to let out a loud bark and its eyes sparkle with anger. It has definitely gotten bigger now that I can see it up close. Before it has a chance to run me over, a tall figure pushes me aside and lets the dog run towards him instead. I can only watch as it attacks my friend. It sinks its long fangs into his neck and scratches his arms with its dark claws, going over and over again until the belstaff coat is covered in blood. 

“SHERLOCK!”

I sit up in my bed. My heart is pounding hard in my chest and I have struggle to breathe. Sweat has soaked my pyjamas and my throat feels extremely dry. I take the glass of water standing on my night stand and drink it in one go. The only thing worse than a nightmare is waking up and realising that reality is even worse. I look at my watch. It’s 3:50. Usually I wake up the first time at around 2 o’clock and then a second time at around 5. Maybe this night I can get away with only one nightmare. I swallow another sleeping pill before lying back down onto the cold pillow. I close my eyes and drift off almost immediately.

***

When I wake up the second time that day, I find myself surprised that I didn’t dream more, and that it’s already 6 am. He would probably correct me now, saying that humans dream every night and just happen to forget most of it, but he’s not. Here, I mean. I try to think of something else, as Ella advised me to, but it takes up all my energy to do so. It’s like when you have to pee and everyone tells you to think about anything else other than water, water is the only thing you can think about. And for the last six months, he has been my water. I get up, get dressed, go to the bathroom and straight into the kitchen to make breakfast. It’s a schedule I settled on with Ella. A routine in my life that keeps everything organised and planned. Planning every minute of the day leaves no room for thoughts. I prepare my bagel with a military drill I perfected at the army. Usually, I would look at the calendar now to check for any appointments, but today I avoid looking at it. Seeing the date is too painful. It’s not like it isn’t marked on my brain anyway. 

I leave for work. I only started going back to work recently, mainly because of financial issues. After the… after last June I couldn’t work, I couldn’t do anything. I only felt numbness and pain, when I allowed the memories and feelings to consume me. Everyone was so worried as to why I was behaving like that, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and even Greg, but they just don’t understand. He was my whole world. He was my flatmate, my best friend, he gave me a reason to live in a time when I desperately needed one. Being with him healed me, but it was more than that. We were, I can see that now in retrospect, perfect for each other. We fit together like two halves of a puzzle piece. I never used to believe in something as corny as soulmates, but it is the best term to describe what he was to me. Now that he’s gone, I constantly feel like someone ripped out a part of myself that I never knew I had before I lost it. I don’t assume people to understand the relationship we shared, they often misinterpreted it and thought that he was my boyfriend. But even though he wasn’t, he was so much more. He was my partner and I would’ve spent the rest of my life with him. And now it’s too late. 

I decided yesterday to finally visit Mrs. Hudson today. She has been calling and leaving a ton of messages after I packed my bags and left Baker Street, but I couldn’t bring myself to respond. Gradually after time, the calls got less and less frequent until her last message at Christmas. I hardly remember what she said, because I deleted the message immediately afterwards. I might have been a bit drunk, too. I never really liked the holidays anyway. 

***

“Thank you for your help, Dr. Watson. You are amazing with kids.” The mother of my 6-year-old patient smiles at me. She has a pretty smile, and I try to return it. Unwillingly, my mind goes back to the last time someone used that compliment on me. “John, you are fantastic, you’re amazing!” He had said. It was the only time I’d seen him compliment someone other than himself like that. He had even called me his _conductor of light_. I can still see him clearly, with his dark curly hair and his long coat flying in the wind, making him look like a hero with a cape. No matter what he told me back the night before he… the night we were both arrested, he was a hero. And he always will be. 

“Dr. Watson? Is everything okay?”

I realise with slight panic that I have been doing it again. I clear my throat and apologise, assuring the woman and her son that I was just daydreaming. Before I let the next patient enter, I run my wrists under the cold water of the examination room sink. I’m feeling nauseous again. It happens almost everytime I allow my thoughts to drift off. He sits on the floor in the corner and examines me. It’s the only thing he ever does - look at me. He doesn’t speak. I take a deep breath and think about what Ella told me to do. _Take a deep breath. Think about your next move, the next bullet on your to-do list. You have time to think about him, but not at work._ He eyes me and starts to smile. Not the fake smile he constantly used for his clients, but the rare, honest smile that not many people had the fortune of seeing on him. I rub my eyes and call for the next patient.

After work, I leave for the tube. Usually I take the 4 that takes me straight to my flat or I exit one station earlier and go grocery shopping. Today, however, I planned on doing something else, I remind myself. I want to visit Mrs. Hudson. Reluctantly, I go into the opposite direction at the station and exit the tube at Baker Street. 

I walk down the street to see the building, and the memories hit me painfully. I have to stop walking, my sight being blurred out by visions of the past. 

_Take my hand_

I see the road we ran off of, where he had pointed a gun at my head, claiming me to be his hostage in order to keep me out of the crime we were about to commit. Of course I had let him do it. No one else could have pointed a gun at me and receive the same reaction, but I trusted him with my life. I slowly turn my head towards the golden numbers 221 at the door, the one he had held open for me so many times. I look up at the windows with its closed curtains, and for a second my eyes trick me into seeing the tall figure right there. He used to secretly watch me when I went out, I know that. Contrary to his belief, I’m not a complete idiot. Our last conversation in there replays in my mind. 

_Moriarty is playing with your mind, too. Can’t you see what’s going on?_

He really was afraid I’d believe Moriarty. Did he really think so little of me, or did he think so little of himself? 

_No. I know you for real,_ I replied. 

The only thing I can do now is desperately hope that he believed me. My gaze wanders down to Speedy’s and I think back to all the uncountable times Sherlock and I picked up lunch there, when we were too lazy to even go out around the corner to a restaurant or to order takeaway. Tears are filling in my eyes and I have to blink rapidly. Mrs. Hudson isn’t expecting me. She could be gone to do the grocery shopping, for all I know. She probably doesn’t even want to see me. I turn around as I feel panic rising up inside me, and leave. I don’t look back.

***

In the evening, I sit on my couch doing nothing. Even though the TV is on, I only register it as a slight background noise. The dominant noise I hear is a rushing in my ears. He is sitting on the kitchen chair, watching me. The light green eyes pierce into mine under long eyelashes and it feels like he can look right through to my soul. The dark curls that frame his face are perfectly shaped. God, he is beautiful. This is the only time of the day I am allowed to consciously think of him. It’s what Ella and I agreed upon. Of course she doesn’t know that I never make it through the day without thinking of him before 7 pm. But when I am allowed to, I let my thoughts wander even further. I do not only let the memories of our time together flood me, I also think back to the day it happened. I try to think of a solution. He called me when he was standing on that rooftop. He wanted me to give him a reason to live, and I failed him. It is a thought constantly present on my mind. What could I have said to make him stay? What would’ve been a good enough reason for him? The thought hurts even more because he was a good enough reason for me. Two years ago, I had found myself in a very similar position. After knowing him for less than 24 hours he had already completely turned my life around. He saved me, I know that now. Why couldn’t I save him? I should have told him I loved him. Would it have been enough for him not to leave me? 

What strikes me is that he tried to convince me of the lie he was telling. 

_Nobody could be that clever_

But that isn’t true. _You could._

The puzzle I am trying to solve is not only what I could have said, but also why he told me that lie. Was it because he wanted to make his death easier for me? Did he think I wouldn’t grieve him if I believed he was a liar? Did Moriarty force him to say that to me? I keep replaying our last conversation in my mind, trying to figure out his intentions. When he stood there and instructed me to stay where I was, I did, because I thought that he’d jump if I moved. But he jumped anyway. I can still hear his broken voice saying _Goodbye, John._ The second he fell was the longest second of my life. I ran over to him immediately, but it was too late. I grabbed his wrist to feel for a pulse, but there wasn’t one. How could I have ever taken his pulse, his beating heart for granted? The moment I realised that he was… that he was gone, I fainted. 

Suddenly, my thoughts get interrupted by a ringing sound. It’s not the TV. My phone. I reach over to grab it and sigh as I see the name of the incoming caller. “Hello?”

“Hi, John. It’s me – Harry. I thought I’d check up on you, see what you’re up to?” 

“I’m… I’m at home watching telly. What’s going on? You never call.”

“Well you never call either. I just, you know, wanted to catch up.”

“Okay.”

“So, any news?” She asks.

I clear my throat. “No, not really. Anything from your side? How’s Linda?”

“Oh, everything’s fine. No news here either.”

“Hang on, are you just calling to see if I’m still alive? Is it because of today’s date?!”

“What? Can’t a sister just call her brother without a proper reason?”

“She can, but not you and me. Harry, please, just admit it.” 

“Okay, okay. John I am worried about you. I know from your blog that today was the day you met Sherlock –“

My heart skips a beat at the sound of his name. 

“- and I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I am, thank you. You really don’t have to worry, I started working again after the holidays.”

“Really? That’s wonderful news, John! I’m so happy to hear that!”

She seems genuinely happy. I sigh. “Yeah, I know. I’m really getting better,” I say, wishing I could believe it. “Thanks for the call, we should meet soon.”

“Yes, we should. I’ll give you a call when I’m in town. Bye, John!”

“Bye.” I hang up, look over to where he is still sitting on my chair and resume my train of thoughts immediately. 

When the memories get too much, when I am on the verge of drowning in them, I usually go to bed. I haven’t found a solution yet, but I will. It’s the only thing that keeps me going. I lay down in my bed, feeling cold and as lonely as ever. As soon as I fall asleep, I will have a nightmare. The only consoling thought is that at least I can talk to him in those. I can see him during the day, but I never talk to him and he never talks to me. Sometimes he watches me at work, sometimes he sits at the table with me when I have dinner. But we never talk, I’m not insane. I don’t want to alarm anyone though, so I don’t tell Ella. Somehow I feel that it helps, knowing that he’s watching me. I close my eyes and wait for sleep to take over me. My last thought before drifting off is always the one thought I do not allow myself to have during the day. 

_Sherlock._


	4. 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s easier to leave those words unsaid now, because I know they wouldn’t change anything. Sherlock Holmes is dead. I’ve learned to accept that. He’s not coming back from the dead like in some of those cheesy movies. He’s just dead.

The beeping sound of my alarm wakes me up. I had another dreamless night. They have become more frequent, lately, and I don’t know whether I’m happy or sad about it. On the one hand, sleeping through the night without waking up panting is a relief. On the other hand, it means that I can no longer talk to Sherlock. I still see him, but only a few times a week. He still never speaks to me, though, and I am afraid of forgetting the sound of his deep voice. I get up and ruffle my hands through my hair. It’s quite early to start thinking about Sherlock, and I briefly fear that I might fall back into old habits. But then again maybe today is an exception.

I make myself some breakfast in the kitchen. While buttering my toast, I take a quick glance at the calendar. I know what day it is today, but I can’t help it. Right next to the calendar, I suddenly see him standing against the door frame and grinning at me. Of course he has to show up today, that selfish git. I haven’t seen him this early in the morning in a long time. He must know which day it is, too. He watches me while I eat, the same way he used to whenever I ate and he wasn’t hungry or refused to eat because of a case. Before leaving for work, I make sure that he stays seated at the table, and I pray to myself that he won’t come to work with me.

***

At work, the new nurse engages me into a conversation. Her name is Mary, she started working at the clinic this year and I’ve only talked to her a couple of times. I think I could like her. She seems nice, and her blonde hair and genuine smile add to her beauty. 

“Oh really? We actually do have something in common, then,” she says and hands me a coffee.

“Yeah it would seem so,” I reply and return her smile. “I don’t take sugar in my coffee either.”

I can’t help but think back to the last time I actually had sugar in my coffee. Sherlock had handed me a sugared coffee with a smile and I thought he wanted to apologise. As it turned out, he just used it as an excuse to try and drug me like a lab rat. That cock. 

“Do you know where they have the best coffee? In this new little café in Soho. We should get one together, sometime,” she says with a casual tone, as if offering me to watch my cats on the weekend.

At first, I don’t know how to respond. I haven’t been on a date in ages. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t really interested in dating when I lived with Sherlock, and then I was just too sad and depressed to even consider going out. It somehow feels like cheating, agreeing with her now. But would Sherlock really mind? He was never interested in such things, at least not with me, anyway. And it’s not like he’s coming back anytime soon. Life only moves forward, I learned that the hard way. I know I have to move on, and maybe this is the first step in the right direction.

“Yes, we should, actually. That would be lovely,” I say, and we settle on Thursday after work. Good. I can do this. It actually feels nice to have something to look forward to. 

***

In the afternoon after my shift at the clinic, I decide to visit his grave. I haven’t been here since New Year’s Day. It’s very cold outside, so I take my green coat that I hate because it always reminds me of the one Moriarty put me in all those years ago. The graveyard isn’t too far from my apartment. I don’t bring any flowers, as there are usually some there whenever I come by. I assume they are from Mrs. Hudson, or Molly, or maybe even Mycroft. I haven’t seen either of these people since I moved out of Baker Street. I actually tried to phone Mrs. Hudson a couple of times last year, but she wasn’t at home when I did. After a while it got easier to just not pick up the phone at all. And who knows what Mycroft is up to? He was devastated the last time I saw him. No matter how much Sherlock would fight me for it, I know that the two brothers loved each other. 

Upon approaching his grave, I see a couple of fresh white roses in front of it. I wonder who put them there this time. I don’t really talk to the grave, or him, not since the last time.

_There’s just one more thing, one more miracle Sherlock, for me. Don’t be dead._

It’s easier to leave those words unsaid now, because I know they wouldn’t change anything. Sherlock Holmes is dead. I’ve learned to accept that. He’s not coming back from the dead like in some of those cheesy movies. He’s just dead. Suddenly, my eyes fill with tears. That is one of the reasons why I don’t come here often. I always start to cry and it’s embarrassing. I’ve never been the emotional type. It’s not even that I think about him more when I’m here, it’s just that the finality of his death and therefore the finality of our time together hits me whenever I see his grave. 

I take a step forward. Maybe today I can make an exception. I place one hand on the gravestone like I did right after he died, because it gives me the balance and stability I need right now. I clear my throat, look around to check that nobody is watching me, and start to whisper.

“Sherlock? Oh god, this is ridiculous. Okay. I know you can’t hear me, but I need to talk to you and I can’t simply wait for you to appear in my dream. You’re probably wondering why I’m here today. Well, today is the day you changed my life three bloody years ago. And now you’re gone.” I pause for a while and take a deep breath. “Do you remember when you told me you only had one friend? I didn’t realise it back then, but I only had one friend, too. And that friend is dead now. But I could really use your advice.”

I stop, unable to form my thoughts into words. Suddenly, I have to giggle.

“If you could see this now, you’d probably laugh at me. You’d tell me that the afterlife is a fantasy made up by people who can’t cope with the death of their loved ones, or something like that. And I’d laugh at your arrogance, but of course you’d be right… Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I’m moving on. Actually, I’ve got a date.” 

_That’s what I was suggesting._ I suddenly hear his voice as clearly as if he was standing right next to me. I try to stop myself from grinning at the memory and fail. 

“I can’t live in the past forever. I hope you’re happy for me, and that you’re happy wherever you are right now.”

I take a small step back. Talking to him, or at least his gravestone, actually made me feel better. I smile down at the grave one last time before leaving.

***

On my way back to the flat, I see Molly Hooper on the other side of the street. For a second, I think of ignoring her, but then a feeling of guilt crawls up inside me and I wink over at her. She sees me, smiles and crosses the street.

“Hi John! How are you? Didn’t expect to see you,” she says.

I haven’t seen her in ages. She looks fine, actually. I didn’t really know what I was expecting, but definitely not this. She’s wearing a trenchcoat that matches her hair colour and her smile comes up all the way to her brown eyes.

“Molly, wow. I’m fine, thank you. How are you? I haven’t really seen you, since…”

“Since the funeral? Yeah I was quite busy, I guess. I’m good, I’ve been working a lot since Sherlock…” She lowers her eyes and for a second I can see a flicker of sadness in them. 

“Yeah, me too.” I don’t know what else to say. I’ve never really spent much time talking to Molly. To be fair, I only saw her with Sherlock, and she only ever had eyes for him.

“Where are you working?” she asks.

“I work at a clinic near Hyde park. The job is good, yeah, very good. I mean it’s not like chasing criminals across London, but it pays the rent.”

“John, I really am glad to hear that you’re doing okay. I know the one and a half years weren’t easy for you, so it’s good to know that you’re doing better,” she gives me a slight smile. 

“I actually just got back from the graveyard, you know,” I say, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “I normally don’t visit often, it’s just with today and everything…” I let the end of the sentence trail off. Molly probably doesn’t even know what day it is today. And why am I telling her this, anyway?

“Oh, okay, that’s nice,” she replies. I can tell that she doesn’t know what day it is, or at least not its significance to me. “You should come by more often. You never know who you might bump into,” she adds.

I frown at her. What’s that supposed to mean? Does she think I want to meet women at a graveyard? The thought seems absurd, but then again, Molly works at the morgue, so she might have different views on the topic. Suddenly it hits me that she was probably on her way to the cemetery just now.

“Were you going to visit him now?”

For a moment, she seems startled. “Oh, no, no. I- I was actually on my way to a friend. Err, anyway John. I’m sorry but I’m quite late already,” she smiles apologetically.

“Oh that’s okay, I didn’t mean to keep you back.”

We say our goodbyes and the situation manages to get awkward when I stretch out my hand while she tries to hug me. As I turn around to resume my walk, I hear Molly’s voice from behind once more.

“Oh and John? I’m sure there are better times ahead of you, okay?”

“Okay,” I reply, trying to smile. For the rest of the way, I keep thinking about what she could have possibly meant.

***

At home I make myself some dinner. I actually stopped ordering every evening like I used to do with Sherlock, it’s cheaper that way. I don’t see him again during the evening. After dinner, I keep pacing through the living room. I’ve had an idea a couple of weeks ago, but I wasn’t really sure whether to put it into action so far. Today seems like the perfect occasion to get started, though. I was sorting through some of my old boxes, the ones that I still hadn’t gone through after I moved out of Baker Street. In one of them, I found all of my old notes - some bills, some recipes from Mrs. Hudson when she told us we couldn’t eat Chinese for the rest of our lives, but mainly notes on Sherlock’s cases. I read through them and saw Sherlock as soon as I was finished. He looked at me a bit curiously but also expectantly, I can’t remember ever seeing this look on him when he was alive. I sorted through the notes and actually found a couple of interesting ones, ones that I could probably write up on the blog. 

Ever since Sherlock died, I’ve been receiving a lot of criticism and hate, or rather, hate on his behalf. At first, I tried to ignore the people that kept commenting on my old blog posts saying that Sherlock was a fake, but after a while the urge got stronger to reply and defend him. I started writing back, started having heated conversations via mail with complete strangers. It helped to release my anger a bit, but in the long run most people still didn’t believe me. They only believed what they had heard in the news, that Sherlock invented Moriarty and that he had actually committed all the crimes himself. I was getting furious. Sherlock had probably saved some of their lives, and yet these utter prats didn’t believe in him. It really got to me, and I kept thinking of a way to prove Sherlock’s innocence. Maybe publishing some of our old cases is gonna help those idiots to see Sherlock for who he really was. If they could see him through my eyes, they would never doubt him. He was so much more human than he let the public know. In a way he was the most human human being I’ve ever known. 

But that’s not the main reason why I thought about updating the blog with old cases. I avoid thinking about it, but I am afraid of forgetting Sherlock and our time together. I’ve been noticing it lately, especially ever since the daily nightmares stopped, that I can sometimes only hear the sound of his voice distantly, as if it was merely an echo. It’s fading from my memory. I’ll always remember how he looked like (I’ve even got a bunch of paparazzi photos to remind me) but it’s the little things that are gradually fading – his annoyed _why-am-I-the-only-intelligent-person-in-the-room_ face, the way he tilted his hands underneath his chin while thinking, the creases on his forehead when he examined a body, the way he curled his lips when he was about to show off, how he played the violin with closed eyes or the way he slid his fingers through his curls when he was bored. I won’t let it happen. Even though I know that I can’t live in the past, I want to preserve Sherlock’s legacy. He would probably kill me for the thought, but he was a good man. He would’ve never admitted it, but deep down I know he turned out to be a consulting detective rather than a criminal for the right reasons. Maybe it’s time to share my image, the true image, of Sherlock Holmes. 

I spend the rest of the evening going over the notes again, trying to sort them in a chronological order. A couple of hours later, I look at my result. I managed to organise the pile of notes by dates and cases, and identify my old handwriting completely. Sherlock would be proud of me. I gather all the notes belonging to one case into one clear film, until I have a folder full of handwritten notes. I get up from the floor where I was seated in a pretty uncomfortable position for a 41-year-old. Before switching off the lights in the living room, I turn around after seeing a tall figure in the corner of my eyes and turn around. Sherlock is sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, staring at the folder. Suddenly, he looks up and smiles and that’s when I know that I’m going to start updating the blog again.


	5. 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, that was close,” I say.
> 
> “I wouldn’t say close.”
> 
> Suddenly I realise that I’m still holding his hand, and release it immediately. Sherlock briefly stares at me before rushing towards the street, leaving me in the dark.

I open my eyes slowly. The light streaming in through the window is painfully glaring. I feel the weight of an arm on my waist and try to shift as calmly as possible in order to keep the person attached to said arm from waking up. As I try to get up silently, I hear Mary sighing and turning around. Her back is facing me now, but I know she just woke up as well. 

“John?” she murmurs.

“Yeah?” I whisper in response.

“What time is it?”

“You can still sleep for a couple of minutes. I’ll wake you.”

I know that she likes to sleep till the very last minute. I lean over to give her a kiss on the head and slowly leave the bedroom. Downstairs, I prepare some breakfast for the both of us. It’s what future husbands are supposed to do. Sometimes I still can’t believe it. I’m engaged. I’m actually going to get married. And, as another bonus, I get to have my best friend as my best man on the wedding, which is something I never thought possible when I initially intended to propose to Mary. Well, that is if he agrees. I chuckle at the thought. After everything that happened I didn’t really find the time to ask him yet. To be honest, I didn’t really think it necessary to officially pop the question – Sherlock knows that he’s my best friend, so I assumed he would more or less invite himself to the task, out of natural habit. But so far he hasn’t mentioned a word to me, so I guess I’ll have to ask him anyway.

I bring the breakfast to Mary and slowly shake her awake. She turns around and opens her eyes.

“Wow, John, you really shouldn’t overdo it before we actually get married. Otherwise I will have too high expectations.” She smiles at me and takes the coffee mug out of my hand.

“I know, I know. It won’t become a habit, I promise,” I chuckle.

“Will you see Sherlock today?” She asks after taking a sip of the coffee.

“I don’t know what he’s up to actually.”

“You should go see him after work and finally ask him.” She raises an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, you’re probably right. But we just never really talk about these things, so it could be quite awkward,” I reply. 

“I actually thought he would self-declare his position as best man the minute we got engaged. He’s probably just being polite and waiting for you to ask.”

“You really don’t know him very well, do you?” I ask sarcastically. Sherlock being polite. What an idea.

***

The clinic is bursting with patients today, mainly the flu and occasionally a more serious influenza. I barely have time for a lunch break. After just finishing a bagel between two patients I receive a text.

_Got time later? I could use your help with a case. SH_

I stare at the phone for a second. Sometimes I still can’t believe that he’s really back. That he’s alive and texting me from our - his flat at Baker Street. I can’t keep myself from grinning. He basically just offered me the perfect opportunity to ask him.

_Will be there as soon as I finish work._

As I put the phone back into my coat, I hear the beeping sound of another message.

_Work is boring. You should just skip it. SH_

_I can’t skip my work, Sherlock, I’m a doctor._

_You could still resume your work as my blogger. SH_

Before I have the chance to answer, Mary announces through the two-way intercom that Mr Geller is arriving with a continuing hiccup.

***

After telling Mary that I’m going to see Sherlock, I head towards Baker Street. I can’t help but feel a bit nervous. It’s ridiculous. I wasn’t really nervous when I asked Mary to marry me, so why I am nervous to ask Sherlock to be my best man is beyond me. He probably already expects it, or at least deduced it from my facial expression when we last saw each other. I enter the flat with my keys. Sherlock never asked me to return them and I never offered to. 

Just as I am about to ascend the stairs, I hear hysterical noises coming through the door of 221A. Fearing that Mrs Hudson might have lost her mind, I open the door to check on her. She is sitting at her table and, I realise with relief, laughing in a high-pitched tone.

“Mrs Hudson?”

Her face brightens slightly. “Oh, hello, darling!”

“You all right? I was – I was coming to see Sherlock, and I thought you were…”

“Go,” she interrupts.

“… possibly dying,” I conclude.

She still hasn’t stopped giggling. “What’s wrong?” I ask. The way she laughs seems suspicious.

“The – the telegrams!” is the only remark she manages to articulate. What telegrams? I try to grin but I still have no idea what she’s talking about. 

“Sorry, what?” I try one last time.

“Oh, sorry, dear!” She replies, stands up and lightly pats my arm before walking away, still laughing hysterically. I can’t help but feel amused at the happy sight of my former landlady.

Upstairs, I aim for the living room but hear Sherlock’s voice from the kitchen.

“What was that noise downstairs?” He asks. I turn into the kitchen to see my friend standing at the table wearing safety glasses. I am still taken aback by seeing him here, living and breathing. If he knew how many times I saw him in the last years, always silent, he would definitely laugh at me. Hearing him actually speak still feels like a miracle sometimes. It’s almost been three months since his return from the dead, but I still feel my heart jump a bit whenever I see him. At first I was angry at him for lying to me and not trusting me enough to let me in on his plan. When I found out later that he faked his suicide to protect Mrs Hudson, Greg and me, I forgave him, even though he had given me the toughest two years of my life. In the end, my happiness definitely outweighed my anger. 

Sherlock is, I notice with slight disgust, holding an eyeball with some large tweezers in his hand. He’s apparently trying to roast it as he is holding a lit blowtorch near to the optic nerve dangling behind the eyeball. He is wearing his camel coloured dressing gown which was always my favourite on him.

“Er, it was Mrs Hudson laughing,” I manage to reply.

“Sounded like she was torturing an owl.”

“Yeah. Well, it was laughter.”

“Could have been both.”

I wonder what he needs my help for. Maybe he has already forgotten his text from before. “Busy?” I ask.

“Just occupying myself.” He sighs and lifts his head dramatically. “Sometimes it’s sooo hard not smoking.” As he says that, the eyeball slips out of the tweezers and drops into a mug placed on the table. I look at it for a second, then remember why I’m here.

“Mind if I interrupt?”

“Er, be my guest.” I walk over towards him and pull back a chair.

“Tea?” Sherlock asks, offering me the mug on the kitchen table. I politely decline the offer and sit down. Okay, I can do this.

“So, the big question.” I start. This is a hint he is going to get.

When Sherlock doesn’t reply, I continue. “The best man.”

“The best man?” He repeats. Since when does Sherlock Holmes repeat the obvious?

“What do you think?” I ask. Now he definitely understood. I smile contently.

“Billy Kincaid.”

What?! “Sorry, what?”

Sherlock continues with a monologue about this guy that apparently saved three hospitals from closure and ran a couple of children’s homes in north England. When I can’t take it anymore, I interrupt him. “For my wedding! For me. I need a best man.” I say. Is he trying to mock me?

“Gavin?” He asks.

“Who?”

“Gavin Lestrade. He’s a man and good at it.” It slowly dawns on me that Sherlock, although the most intelligent man I’ve ever met, might be more ignorant than I thought.

“It’s Greg. And he’s not my best friend.” I reply with a tender voice. Somehow knowing that Sherlock doesn’t think he could be my best friend is touching.

“Oh, Mike Stamford, I see. Well, he’s nice, although I’m not sure how well he’d cope with…”

Oh for heaven’s sake. “No, Mike’s great, but he’s not my best friend.” Who would’ve thought that Sherlock could be so slow? He gives me a long look, probably trying to invent some other friend for me. I should definitely enlighten him before he suggests Mycroft.

“Look, Sherlock, this is the biggest and most important day of my life.”

“Well…”

“No, it is! It is. And I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world.” I can’t believe I’m saying this. It feels weird saying it out loud, but it’s true nonetheless and I want Sherlock to know.

“So, Mary Morstan…” I pause, waiting for him to finally get it and conclude my sentence. But Sherlock only brings out a short “Yes” and waits for me to continue.

“… and…” I sigh. This is tougher than I thought. I look up at Sherlock and stare into his deep green eyes. For some reason he looks more vulnerable than ever. Does he really not know?

“… you,” I finally finish. Sherlock starts to blink rapidly but doesn’t move nor speak. I decide that he’s probably thinking about my declaration and simply wait for him to answer. When he remains silent for a couple of minutes, I tap my foot. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of me.

“Sherlock.” Still no answer. He seems frozen, the way he is staring motionlessly at me. “That’s getting a bit scary now,” I add after another couple of minutes.

Sherlock finally releases a long breath and says “So, in fact…you, you mean…” 

Apparently he still doesn’t know what to say, so I try to help him. “Yes.”

“I’m your… best…” He finally got it!

“… man,” I reply, while Sherlock simultaneously asks “… friend?”

I can’t hide my astonishment. Is that really so surprising to him? Doesn’t he remember what we’ve been through? Doesn’t he know how much I value him? Should I have mentioned it more in the past?

“Yeah, ‘course you are. ‘Course, you’re my best friend.” I smile at him. He should know that and never doubt it again. Sherlock slowly picks up the mug without looking away and takes a sip from the tea.

“Well, how was that?” I ask. 

Sherlock finally takes his eyes off of me, stares at the mug for a second and licks his lips. “Surprisingly okay.”

“So you’ll have to make a speech, of course,” I say, trying to release the tension of the conversation a bit. 

“Oh… as you wish.”

***

We talk about the progress of the wedding preparations for a bit, and later I remind Sherlock of why he actually texted me.

“How could I have forgotten? We’ve got a case, John. The game is on!” he exclaims while storming out of the kitchen and into his bedroom. He returns a couple of minutes later, fully dressed in a black suit. 

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Sherlock pauses in his movement. “Oh, haven’t I told you about the case yet?” He frowns at me.

I shake my head in response and wait for him to fill me in.

“I was contacted two days ago by a certain Mr Bellinger. He told me that a document of great importance was stolen from his dispatch box, which he had kept at home all the time. The document’s content is particularly interesting, it could start another war as it is an injudicious letter from a foreign potentate. As it turns out, Mr Bellinger is the secretary for European affairs and he asked me to help him find the letter. Since no one in his house knows of the dispatch box, I decided to put my homeless network on it. Yesterday evening one of my spies, Davis, was found stabbed to death.”

I exhale sharply. “Do you think his murder’s got something to do with the case? It could be a coincidence.”

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” Sherlock mutters more to himself than to me. “The situation has gotten out of hand. I need to go to Mr Bellinger’s house and look for evidence of a possible break-in myself. The homeless network didn’t see anything peculiar so far.”

“Okay, so that’s where we’ll go now?”

“Exactly.”

We leave the flat and take a cab to one of the richer districts in London. The houses seem to get bigger and bigger until the cab finally comes to a halt. We stand in front of a Victorian villa with huge windows and a large garden surrounded by a brick wall. Sherlock aims straight at the wall and examines the installed security system with great interest.

“Sherlock? Couldn’t we have just asked Mr Bellinger to show us his house?” I whisper from behind. It has gotten quite late: dusk has already arrived. 

Sherlock straightens. “I want to reconstruct the situation as closely as possible. Besides, Mr Bellinger could be hiding something himself, and I don’t want to rely on his intervention.”

I follow my friend around the large building until we are facing the back yard. The brick wall keeps us locked out of the villa, even though it’s not very high. Sherlock gives me a look and I know what he’s thinking immediately.

“No, Sherlock, forget it. I’m not climbing over there!”

“John, we need to see whether the basement door is locked, or whether we could hypothetically climb through one of the windows.” Even though it’s fairly dark, I can see that he’s making puppy eyes at me. That bastard.

“Fine!”

Sherlock helps me by serving as a step ladder. He gently pushes me higher up on the wall and I finally manage to land on the other side. A minute later, Sherlock lands on the ground as elegant as ever. 

“What are you waiting for?”

We slowly make our way closer to the house, or should I say mansion. While Sherlock checks the windows, I look at the basement door. It’s locked. Even the basement door has a security system. There’s no way anyone could open it forcefully, not even Sherlock. I return to find my friend already back at the brick wall. He winks at me and suddenly I see the hysterical look on his face. I turn around and see a small child standing in the window pane, watching me. Since I can’t think of anything better to do, I smile at her and slowly walk backwards. The girl looks at me curiously but apparently doesn’t intend to alarm her parents. When I finally reach Sherlock, I practically fall into his arms, still walking with my eyes fixed on the girl. 

“Time to turn around, John. NOW.”

I give the girl one last reassuring smile before turning around and using Sherlock’s hand to climb back over the wall. I briefly wait on top and decide to take Sherlock’s hand to pull him over more quickly. We jump down together and lean on the safe side of the wall, both panting and slightly giggling. 

“Well, that was close,” I say.

“I wouldn’t say close.”

Suddenly I realise that I’m still holding his hand, and release it immediately. Sherlock briefly stares at me before rushing towards the street, leaving me in the dark.

***

“So what did you find out?” I ask later. We decided to walk all the way back to the flat, enjoying the cold winter air. 

“The windows are locked. There’s an alarm that goes off if you try to open them from the outside. No one could’ve possibly climbed through them.” He looks frustrated. His eyes are fixed on the street.

“The same goes for the basement door. You literally can’t open it without the proper code. The thief must be someone close to Mr Bellinger. Maybe one of the staff…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

I ignore his comment. “So what do we do now?”

“We wait.”

“I thought you hated waiting?”

“I do.”

We walk the rest of the way in silence. The case is definitely one of the frustrating ones. I check my phone but Mary hasn’t texted me so far. Before reaching Baker Street, Sherlock suddenly turns to walk into the wrong direction. 

“Where are we going?” 

Sherlock points his head in the direction of the Chinese restaurant we used to frequent so regularly. I can’t help but sigh at the sight. I haven’t been here in a long time.

“You’re hungry,” Sherlock says. It’s not a question. I follow him through the doors and watch him order some take-away. He orders my favourite meal and for a second I wonder why he remembers, but then again, Sherlock can keep practically anything in his mind palace. From the order I can tell that he actually plans on eating something, too. That’s new and I feel content.

“You know, I actually got rid of this habit when you were…” I don’t quite know how to finish the sentence. 

Sherlock looks at me uncomfortably. “I know. But we both know I’m not the cooking type,” he smirks. 

I manage a quick laugh. 

Back at the flat, we eat our meals on the sofa. The take-away boxes are spread out in front of us on the couch table. The food is delicious, I can’t deny that. Sherlock talks more about the case, probably simultaneously explaining his theories to me and deciding which one is the most probable one to himself. I listen and try not to interrupt his thought process too often. Even though we are stuck with the case, he seems content. His now blue eyes are gleaming with anticipation. 

“John, you’re staring at me.”

“Oh, really…” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry,” I say, slightly embarrassed. “It’s just I never thought in my wildest dreams that I’d ever talk to you again,” I add, trying to overplay my embarrassment.

Sherlock turns to look at me. He seems to actively study my features before saying “It must have been hard for you, considering how it was for me. I knew I’d probably see you again, yet those were the two most dreadful years of my life.”

I try to respond, but am actually taken aback. Sherlock hasn’t really talked about the time he spent unravelling Moriarty’s network. He’s obviously uncomfortable speaking about it. He’s still staring at me, and for a moment I can see a flicker of hurt in his eyes. In the next instant, however, it’s gone. 

“I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like…” I start, but get interrupted by the sound of my phone. A glance at the display tells me it’s Mary.

“Hey, Mary.” 

“John? Are you okay? It’s getting quite late and I was wondering whether you’d be home for dinner.” I feel a stab of guilt in my chest. I should be with her by now.

“Oh, I’m so sorry but I actually just finished eating with Sherlock.” I clear my throat. “I’ll be home in a minute okay?”

“That’s okay,” she says. She doesn’t sound too angry, I think hopefully. I hang up.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry but I need to leave. Mary’s already waiting for me.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“Er, if you want we can discuss this another time?” I ask while getting up from the sofa and depositing my empty boxes in the bin. I feel guilty. This is the first time Sherlock started to open up a bit, and now I’m leaving. I return to the living room to find him still sitting on the couch.

“Yes, sure.”

“Good, okay. You can call me any time when something happens with the case.” I hectically put on the coat that was lying over the side of the couch. 

“John? It was nice spending the day with you,” Sherlock quickly says.

I can’t help but stare at him. Does he really remember…?

“Yeah, it was. See you soon, best man,” I add with a grin. I immediately regret saying that so I turn around and leave to escape Sherlock’s amused look.

***

Back at home, I explain to Mary what has happened and why I missed out on dinner. When I get to the part of Sherlock’s reaction to my request, she starts to giggle. She doesn’t seem to be mad at me for staying away for so long. We also talk about the case and I notice her rising interest in it. It feels nice to go over the details with someone who doesn’t have the slightest idea, either, for a change. When we go to bed, it’s already past midnight. I lay down next to my fiancé and close my eyes. It’s really been a quite successful day. I asked Sherlock to be my best man and we worked on a new case. I finally sensed the feeling again that Sherlock was talking about the night he returned. Even though I would never admit it to him, the thrill of the chase feels bloody good. I place one hand underneath my cheek and can’t stop myself from smiling. It really has been the best 29th of January in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, guess who's finally back! I couldn't resist the temptation to include the "big question" scene, as it does actually fit within the timeline of the show.


	6. 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know that it’s not the two of us against the rest of the world anymore, John.” Somehow he looks vulnerable, even hurt. I feel something tighten in my chest.
> 
> “It’s always gonna be the two of us,” I say.

“Uuuuh, John. Wake up!”

I don’t want to wake up. I shift around in bed and politely ask the voice to shut up.

“John!”

Ow. An elbow just hit me in the waist. I slowly open my eyes and see Mary staring at me. 

“Whassup?”

“You need to get up, John. I need nasal spray and my feet are swollen.”

“Eh, okay.” I climb out of bed and reach for the bedroom door. “But you can only have the salt sea spray,” I murmur, still half-asleep.

A moment later a pillow is flying through the air and hitting me on the chest. “Outsch!”

“I need REAL nasal spray.” 

“You know it’s not good for the baby.”

“Uuuuuh, but I can’t breathe and that’s not good for the baby, either.”

“Breathe through your mouth.” I open the door and fetch the nasal spray from the living room. I’m exhausted. I didn’t get much sleep lately. It’s almost as bad as when I was living with Sherlock.

“There you go, honey.”

My wife gives me a look like she would prefer to kill me right now. A quiet voice in the back of my head tells me that she probably could. I tell the voice to shut up.

“I don’t think I can go to work today,” Mary says in a nasal voice. She coughs for emphasis.

“That’s alright, I can excuse you. You stay at home and get some rest.”  
“Okay, but we were supposed to buy some furniture and decorate the nursery today.” Mary sits up in bed and strokes her belly.

“Well, I guess I could do it by myself.”

“No, you shouldn’t. Why don’t you ask someone to help?”

“Mike’s not in town, actually. Molly is busy with her paper and Greg is on holiday with his kids.”

She frowns at me. “I was thinking of Sherlock.”

“Sherlock? Helping to set up the nursery?” I can’t help but giggle at the thought. 

“Oh, come on, you know he’d do anything for you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How could I talk him into that, exactly?”

“I don’t know, you’ll find a way to convince him,” she says. “And now I need some more sleep.” She yawns.

I look at the watch and notice with disappointment that I need to get up for work in 5 minutes.

***

_Hey! Do you wanna come round later?_

_Why? SH_

_I could use your help._

_With what? SH_

_We’re setting up the nursery today, but Mary’s sick._

_And what can I do to make her feel better? SH_

_Nothing. You can help me set it up._

_Please, Sherlock. For me._

_Fine. But only if I can bring something. It’s an experiment. SH_

_You can bring whatever you like. Unless it’s a body-part._

_Ok. See you at five. SH_

***

“Sir, can I help you?” 

I turn around. The girl from the store smiles at me. After work, I needed to get to a baby market to make sure Sherlock and I can actually put up something for the nursery. Upon entering the shop, I immediately regretted coming. “Yeah, I’m looking for a crib, actually.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Er, a white one, I guess? We’re having a girl.”

“Congratulations!” Her smile widens. “We have a huge selection of cribs here, I know it can be quite overwhelming.”

“Yeah,” I say, looking at the sheer endless cribs in front of me. I touch a white one that I think looks nice and look up at the girl. Her ponytail swings behind her head. She can’t be older than 20.

“This one is really nice, although I do recommend one where the slats are a bit less apart. It shouldn’t be more than two and three-eighth inches. Do you already have a mattress or sheets?”

“Er, no.”

“That’s good, that means we can choose whichever one you like best and get the according bedding. The crib mattress should fit snugly into the crib with no more than two fingers between the edges. It should be firm, and you definitely need a mattress pad or a waterproof cover.”

Oh god. Who knew that buying a fucking crib could be this complicated?

“Okay. Which of these cribs comes with all of that?” I try to sound casual.

“Some do, let me show you a couple. I think this particular model would be a match for you. It has a nice floral design, too.”

One and a half hours later I arrive back home. Mary is crawled up on the sofa, looking miserable. When she sees me, her eyes widen.

“What is all of that in the bag?”

“There’s more in the cab,” I say, panting and placing the bag onto the floor. I return with the second and third bag full of supplies and heap them into the living room, as well. Mary seems amused and frightened at the same time.

“No, seriously John. What’s in there?”

“Oh, just the usual stuff you need for a nursery, like a crib, a baby monitor with two receivers, a smoke detector, an infant dresser, a changing table – by the way, did you know these tables were bloody expensive? – a tiny bookshelf, a bouncy seat and some smaller things.”

Mary’s mouth has dropped open. I shrug my shoulders. “It’s what the girl at the baby market recommended.”

“Wow. This baby will have everything she needs, won’t she?”

“Yes. Did you know that you need to buy a waterproof cover for a crib in case the baby pees on it?”

“Well, it makes sense, I guess.” Mary shrugs. At least I’m not the only one in this house who hasn’t got a clue. I think back to what Sherlock said when we first found out about the baby. _You’re already the best parents in the world._ I wish I was as confident as him.

“Anyway, I’ll carry these upstairs. Oh, and you were right. Sherlock is coming by to help later.”

“See? I knew it.” Mary gives me a wink and turns the sound of the TV back up.

***

At exactly five o’clock, the door rings. I open the door for Sherlock, who is wearing a black suit with a black shirt underneath and carrying a black leather bag in his hand. 

“You sure you wanna work in that suit?”

He frowns. “Of course.”

“Okay,” I chuckle. “Come in.”

Sherlock and I enter the living room where Mary is still curled up on the sofa. I hold my breath for a second. Seeing them together is still weird, after everything that has happened. While Sherlock approaches Mary and bends down to give her a kiss on the cheek, I think that sometimes I seem to be the only one that remembers the last couple of months..

“How are you feeling?”

“Well, I’ve been better,” Mary replies. “This baby better be freaking cute for putting me through this.” She laughs. Sherlock nods in agreement. I stand next to them and watch while they continue their small talk. Mary, who shot Sherlock in the chest last autumn. Sherlock, who killed a man on Christmas to keep her safe. I force myself to stop thinking about that.

They really try, but you can tell that something has shifted in their relationship. Back at the wedding, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was that my best friend and my wife liked each other, especially considering that the amount of people my best friend likes can be counted on one hand. Sherlock really liked Mary, they got along great. And then, not even two months later, she shot him, and I thought I would never forgive her. I didn’t even talk to her until Christmas, when the evidence of our marriage was already visible underneath her sweater. Sherlock was the one who eventually convinced me to forgive her. He had already forgiven her a week after it happened. Sometimes I wonder how he did it. Maybe this whole divorcing yourself from feelings can come in handy at times.

“John? Should we start?” Sherlock looks at me expectantly. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” I reply. “You stay here and rest,” I add towards Mary.

Up in the room, Sherlock seems puzzled. “You’ve already started?”

“Sure. We wouldn’t have been able to do it all just now.” I look around and feel pleased with myself. The changing table is already placed in the left corner of the room, stuffed with a ton of diapering supplies, the smoke detector hangs on the sealing, the dresser is set up next to the changing table and the electric outlet covers are already applied. “But don’t worry, there’s still lots of work to do. We need to put up the crib and the bookshelf and we can arrange the bouncy seat and the baby monitor.”

“Alright.” 

We start working in silence, setting up the crib together. I can hear the distant sound of the TV from downstairs. The girl at the store told me that this crib was easy to install. Well, damn her. I curse silently as I try to figure out the instructions. Suddenly, Sherlock steals it from me and studies it deeply.

“Got it,” he says after a minute. “We need to start with beams 2,4 and 7.”

“I didn’t know you were an expert in furniture.”

“Why would you say that, John? I’m an expert in everything.”

“Of course.” 

Sherlock starts hammering the beams together that I hold out for him. It’s strange seeing him like this. He has rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and slightly pushed the curls out of his face. Even though I’ve known him for five years, I’ve never seen him do anything similar.

“Have you settled on a name, yet?” he asks while checking the instruction sheet again.

“Er, I think we both like Katherine.”

Sherlock sighs loudly. 

“What?”

“Well, you know what I think about it.”

“Sherlock’s not a girl’s name!” 

I can’t help but think back to the first time he proposed it, two weeks ago. He behaved strangely on that tarmac, the way he chose the words made it seem like he was gonna say something completely different, something that would’ve made me freak out completely. Of course I found out later that he was as high as a kite, which probably explained his behaviour, but in the last few weeks I found myself wondering frequently what he had really meant to say, nonetheless.

***

A couple of hours later Sherlock and I look at our result. I’m quite impressed with what we managed to put together in one afternoon. The white crib is standing on the right side of the room (with the mattress, waterproof cover and sheets), and the bookshelf next to the window fits perfectly into the room. We decided to bring the bouncy chair downstairs, as Sherlock suggested we were most likely to use it there, and placed the baby monitor on a small shelf next to the crib. The nursery looks rather nice. 

“So, what do you say?” Sherlock asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“I say we did a bloody good job!” 

“It turned out rather nicely indeed. I just have to make one small addition, and it should be perfect.”

I frown at him. What small addition is he talking about? Sherlock reaches into the leather bag he didn’t open all afternoon, and suddenly I remember the experiment he texted me about earlier. I mentally prepare myself for what’s to come when I see Sherlock pulling a beautiful mobile out of the bag. Little bees hang on the strings in every shape and form, and it’s obvious that this mobile is a handmade unicum. 

“This should fit perfectly… right here,” he says while hanging the mobile up over the crib.

“Sherlock, what is this?”

“It’s a mobile, John, I thought that was fairly obvious.”

“Well, yes, but… where did you get that?”

“I got is as a gift from a client and never had any use for it.”

“Lie.”

“I bought it the other day at a shop.”

“Sherlock...”

“Fine! My grandmother made this for me when I was a baby and somehow it stuck around.”

My mouth must have dropped open as Sherlock eyes me suspiciously.

“That’s… I don’t know what to say. This is a family unicum! You should keep it, it should stay in your family.” I clear my throat. This is truly a thoughtful gift. And it is for Mary’s and my child. I’m not sure we deserve it. Bloody hell, I know we don’t.

“No, John. It’s not like I’m going to have any kids of my own, so this is as close to my family as it gets,” he replies and all of a sudden his eyes widen. I don’t think he realised what he said until he said it. I feel something swell up in my chest. Sherlock thinks that my baby is a part of his family, even though the woman carrying it nearly killed him. God, life can be so cruel sometimes. I have to remind myself why I forgave Mary. I love her, I really do, but if I’m being completely honest shooting my best friend made loving her a bit difficult. Sherlock told me that she saved his life, and in a twisted way I think he could be right. Although he clearly has dubious moral standards. Mary actually risked killing my best friend, the other person I love most in the world, just to keep her secret from me. I don’t know whether I can ever truly forgive her for it. I swallow hard.

“Thank you, Sherlock. This means a lot,” I manage to say. I look up and see his dark blue eyes on me. He’s probably deducing my thoughts. Damn it, John, think of something happy!

“Is this the thing you mentioned to bring over for an experiment?”

“Yeah, I needed an excuse for the bag.”

“The bees are so intricately made,” I say, stepping closer to examine the beautiful details of the mobile.

Sherlock smiles up at his gift. “I’ve always liked bees.”

“Listen, I was wondering –“

“– Mary, you’re up!” he interrupts.

I turn around and see my wife standing in the doorway. She’s already wearing her pyjamas. Her gaze wanders through the room until it sticks with the mobile.

“Yeah, I actually meant to go to bed. Wow, you did an amazing job, guys! The nursery looks so good. John, did you buy the mobile? I like it.” 

“No, it’s actually a gift from Sherlock.”

“Oh, that’s so nice. Thank you, Sherlock.” Mary gives him a genuine smile, which Sherlock returns. She approaches and gives me a quick kiss, then turns over to Sherlock who kisses her on the cheek. Sometimes I can’t believe these two.

***

 

It’s already quite late when Sherlock and I take a seat at the kitchen table. Mary is fast asleep and I feel the need to yawn a couple of times, too. I don’t really know why Sherlock took my offer to stay for a cup of tea, since he’s not usually the sociable type. For a second I even wonder whether he remembers today’s date, but I’m not sure. We drink the tea and talk about the video that stopped Sherlock’s suicide mission. Even though Sherlock is certain that Moriarty is dead, I’m not so sure. The bastard was always equal to him, in some ways. If Sherlock Holmes is able to fake his own death, so is Jim Moriarty. Of course I’m more than glad for the video, as it turned out that Sherlock had meant to say goodbye to me on that tarmac for real this time. I didn’t know it back then, otherwise I would’ve pulled him out of that plane immediately, or jumped in with him. 

“Do you really think he’s doing some sort of posthumous revenge?” I ask and take a sip from my tea.

“No. I think he’s doing a posthumous game. It’s far less tedious.”

“Well, I hope he makes up his mind soon. I don’t need a dead Moriarty playing games when the baby is born.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t bet on it, but you needn’t worry. I’ll keep him away from you.”

“No, Sherlock, that’s not what I meant.”

My best friend frowns at me. He clearly thinks that I won’t see him again once the baby is born. Maybe his assumption isn’t that farfetched, considering I didn’t see him for one month after my wedding. I feel guilty at the thought. Sherlock should know that I don’t plan on doing that again.

“You know, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. I know I already broke this promise before, but I really mean it this time. I still wanna go on cases with you when the baby is here. We’ll still be doing all this stuff.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. Great, so he doesn’t believe me.

“It’s okay, John. You don’t have to say that.”

“But I want to! I mean it!” _Mary almost killed you and you still stand by us, for god’s sake!_ I don’t say.

Sherlock remains silent. He drinks from his cup and watches it curiously. It reminds me about when I asked him to be my best man, one year ago today. 

“Look, Sherlock, I’m not saying this because it’s an obligation or something. I want to spend time with you.” I smile at him and try to convey what words fail to do.

He finally sighs and shifts in his chair. “I know that it’s not the two of us against the rest of the world anymore, John.” Somehow he looks vulnerable, even hurt. I feel something tighten in my chest.

“It’s always gonna be the two of us,” I say.

At that, Sherlock begins to chuckle. That git! We’re having a serious conversation for once and he starts laughing at me! I look at him questioningly. “What?”

“Never mind.”

“No, what’s the matter?”

“I just… what you said reminded me of something you… didn’t say.” He finally looks up from his tea and smiles. Something in his look tells me to let it drop.

“Fine.”

“I should get going,” Sherlock says and places the empty mug in front of him.

***

I open the front door for him and a stream of cold air immediately enters the flat. Sherlock pulls his coat tightly around him and turns his coat collar up. He’s still doing it after all those years. I can’t help but wonder how we ended up here, him leaving for his flat and me staying in mine. It never occurred to me that we wouldn’t live together anymore. His death changed everything. What would’ve happened if he never jumped, I wonder briefly. Would I still have met Mary? Would I have gotten married? Would I be a father in a couple of months? Or would I be at Baker Street now, solving cases with or getting mad at Sherlock? 

“So, thanks for your help.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Somehow we always end up together on this day,” I say.

“We always end up together on Thursdays?”

“No, I meant on this day. You know, the 29th of January.” I clear my throat. He has probably forgotten about that. It’s not even important, and why would someone who deleted the solar system remember the day he met his flatmate?

“I know,” he replies. “I can’t believe it’s been five years.”

“Me neither,” I say, a bit surprised that he actually remembers.

“Well, good night, John.”

“’Night, Sherlock.” I want to do something to show him my gratitude and try to hug him, but stop myself at last because I remember that we don’t hug each other (except during teary best man speeches) and instead end up patting him weirdly on the shoulder. He seems amused but doesn’t say anything and leaves. For a moment, I watch him leave into the dark night, until I get too cold and close the door behind me, the warmth of the flat engulfing me like a blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last fluff before the whole mess of 2016 (i.e. season 4) starts...


	7. 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he rocks her back and forth to try and stop her from sobbing, I can’t help but think back to what Mrs. Hudson told me at the therapist’s house. _But if Sherlock Holmes dies too, who will you have then?_ How bloody right she was.

Rosie’s cry wakes me. It’s 5:25 in the morning. This is the longest she has slept in quite a while, I realise, feeling more well-rested than ever in the last year. I quickly go to the nursery, duck my head under Sherlock’s mobile and pick her up from the crib. She’s a tiny baby for her 10 months of age. I rock her in my arms until she finally stops crying. 

“Shhh, Rosie, everything’s fine. Daddy’s here.” I whisper to her ear.

I hold her close in the darkness of the room and smell the distinctive scent of babies. I love this smell. I sit down in the armchair we put in front of the bookshelf when Mary started breastfeeding her here. I turn on the small lamp that bathes the room in warm light. Rosie looks at me expectantly, and I smile at her in return. She’s the prettiest baby in the world, and with her curly blonde hair, she reminds me so much of her mother. I hold her tight and wait for her to fall asleep in my arms again.  
When she’s back asleep, I place her back in the crib and leave the nursery as quietly as possible. From experience I estimate for her to remain asleep for about an hour. I go downstairs, too distracted to get back to bed, and make myself some coffee. Today is Friday, so I only have to work until 1 o’clock at the clinic. I started going back simply because I need the money. I’ve managed to get a babysitter for Rosie who watches her when I’m not here. I don’t want her to go to kindergarten so soon, and I feel like the time with a woman is good for her. It’s not like anyone could replace Mary, but it’s better than nothing.

I get ready for work and hear Rosie’s cries again exactly one hour after putting her back to bed. I pick her up from the crib once again, change her nappy and dress her for the day. It’s quite cold outside, so I decide to put her into one of the tiny jumpers she got from Mrs Hudson for Christmas. It looks adorable on her and the colour accentuates her deep blue eyes. 

***

When nothing extraordinary happens at the clinic, I find myself getting lost in my thoughts. In between patients, I keep looking around nervously, expecting to see her any moment. But the truth is I last saw Mary on Sherlock’s birthday, when I told her that I cheated on her. I’m not a psychologist, but maybe that’s what I needed to tell her to be able to let her go. What happened when Mary died was not unlike to my prior experience with Sherlock. When he was dead, or rather, when I thought he was dead, I saw him, too. He never talked to me, though. With Mary I was horrified when I heard her utter her first word, right after the funeral, but I got used to it and even started having regular conversations with her. My own behaviour scared me back then, but I didn’t know that it was about to get even worse after New Year’s. 

Mary died last autumn. It’s not even been half a year, and yet I haven’t seen her in three weeks. I saw Sherlock almost the whole two years he was gone, and I wonder why that’s different now. Maybe it’s because I matured or because I’m too occupied with Rosie and everything else. When Sherlock was dead, I had no one for a long time. Or until I started dating Mary, to be precise. Now I have my beautiful daughter and Sherlock and Mrs Hudson and Molly and Greg. It’s weird that these people’s presence in my life seems to be connected to Sherlock’s. 

After work, I call Molly on my way home and ask her to watch Rosie for a couple of hours. She gladly agrees. I feel a pinch of guilt crawling to the surface, thinking back to the time last year when I let my daughter down so often because I simply couldn’t cope. After the Culverton Smith case and everything that came with it, I decided to change that. I’ve been spending my whole time with Rosie since then, and today will be the first time I let someone babysit her when I’m not working. The reason is a new case, of course. It’ll be our first case in weeks. Sherlock texted me yesterday that he could use my help. I agreed to come to Baker Street today to start working on it. Even though we haven’t had a proper case, I’ve been spending a lot of time at Baker Street. I simply pack Rosie’s stroller in the afternoons and visit my old home. It somehow has a soothing effect on me, and it’s better than staying in the flat that reminds me of Mary so much. The fact that Sherlock is my preferred company is only an additional factor. 

The first time I came around was a week after his birthday. He had visited the day before telling me that he had cleaned and baby-proofed the flat completely. Rosie had been at Baker Street before, but after Sherlock had had his break-down and had turned the kitchen into a meth lab and the living room into a collection of newspaper articles, I was reluctant to visit him. Now it feels almost normal to place Rosie into the highchair at 221B and watch Sherlock play with her.

Upon entering my flat, I immediately hear Rosie crying from the kitchen. Alana is standing next to the highchair trying to feed my daughter without success. She looks relieved when she sees me. 

“Ah, Dr. Watson, I’m so glad you’re here. She’s been quite a handful today.”

“It’s okay, I’ll feed her. You can go home, Alana.”

“Thank you Dr. Watson. I’ll see you on Monday?”

“Yes, thank you. Have a nice weekend.”

I wave her goodbye and return my attention to my daughter. Rosie doesn’t look too happy with Alana’s food choice. Her mouth is smeared with orange pap that’s probably carrot smash. I place a kiss onto her forehead and sit down next to the highchair. God, I missed her. I almost can’t believe that I had kept on passing her over to friends so frequently only a couple of weeks ago. She seems taller than this morning, even if I know it’s not physically possible. I take the spoon, give her my most genuine smile and start feeding her.

***

It’s 3 o’clock when Molly arrives and I’ve just finished doing the dishes. Rosie is currently in her bouncy chair and enjoys bouncing around. She needs to be put to sleep in a couple of minutes before she doesn’t sleep, at all. I open the door for Molly who seems genuinely happy to babysit Rosie again.

“Hey, oh where’s my little baby girl?” she asks, her eyes scanning the flat.

“She’s in the bouncy chair, but she needs to be put to bed.” 

“That’s alright, I will do that. You go and – ” She gives me a questioning look. I realise I haven’t told her why I needed her to watch Rosie today.

“I’m going to Sherlock’s actually.”

“Oh, I thought you take Rosie along.”

“I do, usually, but today we’re having a case, and Mary and I agreed to never bring her to cases.” Saying her name out loud still hurts. I clear my throat.

“Of course. This is your first case since the Culverton Smith one, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s been over three weeks and I think today is a good time to start again,” I reply, thinking about the date. It’s weird that I still notice it every single year.

“I’m sure it’s gonna be fun. And Rosie and I will have some fun, too. Isn’t that so, darling?” She smiles over at Rosie and I feel a wave of gratitude for Molly. A few years ago, we were mere acquaintances and only spent time together because of Sherlock, but now she’s the godmother of my daughter and one of my closest friends. I smile at her.

“Okay, I’ll just say goodbye then.”

It’s harder than I thought. Even though I leave Rosie for a couple of hours four times a week, I can’t help but think that this is different. I should take her with me to Baker Street, it’s where we belong. I kiss her again and explain everything to Molly.

“I should be back soon, I hope. With the cases you never really know how long it’s gonna take.”

“John, if you want I can bring her over to the flat later. I know you like spending time there.”

“That’s a good idea, actually, if you don’t mind. I’ll give you a call when we’re finished.”

“Okay. John? How are you feeling?”

“I’m a lot better, actually. I’m seeing my new therapist again on Tuesday, she really helps me through it. And Sherlock and I are a lot better, too.” I clear my throat. Of course Molly knows what happened at the morgue.

“That’s lovely. I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

I give Rosie one last look and say my goodbyes to Molly.

***

“Hi, Sherlock?”

I hear a grunt from the living room. Sherlock is lying on the couch, in his thinking-position. He’s wearing a dressing gown over a shirt, one of the many things I’ve always found curious. Why wear a comfy dressing gown but keep the shirt underneath? He has his eyes closed and doesn’t open them when I enter.

“John.”

“What are you doing?”

He sits up and opens his eyes. I feel a stab of guilt immediately. The hematoma is still slightly visible in his left eye. I try to look away. I’ve always found Sherlock’s heterochromia eyes the most beautiful part of him, and I destroyed that, although only temporarily. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. When Sherlock remains silent, I frown at him.

“When are we leaving?”

“Soon,” he replies, making a swift motion with his hand. He gets up to approach me and stays still right in front of me. He’s probably deducing me right now. All I can do is stare into his right eye. He removed his stubble, I realise with a hint of disappointment. I kind of liked him with facial hair, although I would never tell him that. Especially not since he demonstrated his hatred towards my own so penetratingly in the past. He finally found what he was looking for in my gaze and retrieves to his room. I should probably not call it his room, since this whole apartment is his now, but I can’t help myself from referring to the upstairs bedroom as my own. Jesus, it’s been four and a half years since I’ve lived here. 

Sherlock returns shortly afterwards without his dressing gown. He buttons up his suit while directing me towards the stairs.

“Where’s Rosie?”

“I left her at home, with Molly.”

Sherlock frowns slightly.

“Just, you know, because of the case. I actually asked Molly to bring her around later, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind.”

“Fine. So, where are we going then?”

“I’ll fill you in on the way.”

We leave Baker Street in search for a cab. It started raining, this winter really has been a crappy one. There wasn’t even snow at Christmas, not that I would’ve noticed. Sherlock waves a hand and, as usual, a cab magically appears and stops in front of us. He must have the kind of radiance that allures to taxi drivers. 

As soon as we’re in the cab, he turns his head to the window and starts talking. “I haven’t really talked to the client, yet, except via e-mail, but I’ll ask him to repeat his story in a face-to-face conversation. I only know that the client got married on the 22th and his bride apparently disappeared from the reception. He couldn’t come to Baker Street so we’re meeting him at his house.”

“Do you have any theories as to why she ran off?”

“Seven so far.”

“Okay.”

I wonder why the man couldn’t come to Baker Street, but don’t dwell on it any further. Maybe Sherlock wants to see his surrounding to deduce where the bride might have run off to. Maybe the man is disabled. Or maybe, a tiny voice whispers, Sherlock waited until I had time for our first proper case this year.

***

Fifteen minutes later, the cab pulls over in front of a shabby sky scraper. Sherlock hurries out of the car so I roll my eyes and pay the cabbie. The man, Mr. Simon, lets us into the house and tells us that his apartment is on the thirteenth floor. He waits at the door and gives us a short nod and handshake.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

“Mr. Simon, this is my friend, Dr. Watson.”

“Oh I’ve heard about you two, please come in.”

The interior of the flat is surprisingly luxurious. We sit down on a huge leather couch while Mr. Simon serves us tea.

“I’m glad you had time for me today, Mr. Holmes. The truth is, I’m devastated and you’re my only hope. The police are absolutely rubbish.”

“Even though I could talk about Scotland Yard’s incompetence all day, tell us about your case, Mr. Simon,” Sherlock says while stirring in his cup.

“O- okay. Well, obviously I got married last week, and my wife disappeared after the reception. Her name is Hatty Geller, er, Hatty Simon. We had the most amazing wedding, in this nice little church with our closest family and friends. She never would’ve run off voluntarily, we love each other! She was a bit grumpy after the ceremony but I blame that on her mother’s behaviour. We arrived at the reception and were waiting for the food when Hatty told me she needed to use the bathroom… and that’s it. That’s the last time I saw her. Please, Mr. Holmes, you have to believe me, she would never do this to me! I think somebody might have kidnapped her, or worse. I don’t know what to do, she…” He stops and bursts into tears.

I glance over at Sherlock who’s making an annoyed face and lean over closer to Mr. Simon. I pat his arm and try to comfort him as best as possible, but there’s really not much else I can do. I know what it feels like to lose your wife, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

When Sherlock examines me I can see the worry clear on his face. Is he worried I can’t take this? That it reminds me of everything I’ve lost? Well, he’s right, to be fair, but I need to get myself together. This is our first proper case in ages and I want to get it right.

“Mr. Simon, what else can you tell us about your wife’s behaviour? Did she start acting strange at any time during the wedding?” I ask him and give Sherlock a look that hopefully conveys _I’m fine_.

“W…well, the only thing I can think of is that she dropped her bouquet right after the ceremony and this guy picked it up for her. He was one of the staff I guess. After that, she started acting a bit differently.”

“I will find your wife,” I hear Sherlock say. He makes it sound like a fact. I look over at him shortly, hoping desperately that he’s got a plan and it’s not just his above-average self-confidence talking.

“Do you mind if I look around for a bit?” He grins one of his fake smiles and starts pacing the flat once our client gives a short nod. Mr. Simon and I stay seated on the couch, his eyes still teary. After a couple of minutes, Sherlock seems to have found what he was looking for, and he returns to the living room with gleaming eyes. 

“We have to leave now, Mr. Simon. I’ll call you when we’ve found your wife.”

“You... you think she’s still alive?” Mr. Simon seems hopeful and terrified at the same time. When Sherlock nods, I can’t help but feel envy for this man.

***

Back in the cab, Sherlock is typing away on his phone with quick fingers. He smiles at the screen after receiving a reply and tells the taxi driver to drop us off at an address I’ve never heard of. I look at him questioningly, but Sherlock remains silent. We drive for a couple of minutes when the taxi drops us off at a side road. Sherlock tells the driver to wait for us and I follow Sherlock without asking.

We ring at the door and a woman with black hair and glasses opens the door.

“Who are you?” she asks suspiciously.

“Hatty, hi, I’m Sherlock, this is John. I was just wondering whether you could come with us to explain your situation to your husband, as he’s been rather worried about you.” Sherlock replies and fake-smiles at her. 

So this is Hatty, how the fuck did Sherlock find her so quickly? 

Hatty Simon shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other and I can tell that she thinks about shutting the door in front of us. Before she has the chance, I intervene.

“Hatty, as someone who has lost his wife I can assure you that your husband will be very glad to know that you’re alive. Please come with us.”

My words seem to convince her, as she looks over her shoulder before nodding. She follows us into the cab and back to Mr. Simon’s flat. Her husband’s face goes white once he sees her, but as he tries to hug his wife she takes a step back.

“Honey, what’s going on? Where have you been? I was worried sick!”

“Jake, look, this isn’t going to be easy for you,” she sighs. I wonder whether we should give them some privacy but as we’re all still standing in the doorway, I don’t know where Sherlock and I could go. I look at Sherlock who doesn’t seem concerned. 

“Okay, do you remember my ex-boyfriend Francis?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he was my ex-husband, actually. And he didn’t leave me, he died. At least, that’s what I thought. He was working in the army, as I told you, and one day I was told that he was killed by a bomb.”

“Why did you never tell me that?” Mr. Simon looks horrified. I’m starting to get a bad feeling as to where the conversation is heading.

“When he died, I was devastated! It took me years to put me back together and then I just wanted a fresh start, so I didn’t tell you. I fell in love with you, but then… the day we got married a man picked up the bouquet for me, and it was Francis. I recognised him immediately. I was so confused and desperately needed to talk to him, so I got away after our reception and he explained everything to me. He wasn’t killed by the bomb all those years ago, but was taken hostage and only got away a few months ago. He searched me immediately but it turned out rather difficult because I had moved away. Jake, I love you, believe me I do, but Francis is the love of my life!” Hatty raises her voice at that, but she’s shaking visibly. 

I can feel rather than see Sherlock’s eyes on me, and then realise that Hatty’s and my life have some weird similarities. I clear my throat and focus my attention back to Mr. Simon, who started crying again.

It takes Sherlock another couple of minutes to realise that we should definitely leave at this point. Mr. Simon thanks us and shuts the door behind him and his soon-to-be ex-wife, who agreed to stay and do some more explaining.

***

Back at the flat, I text Molly to let her know that she can bring Rosie over anytime. Sherlock is sitting in his chair opposite to me and seems lost in thought. 

“So, do I want to know how you found Hatty so quickly?”

“You probably don’t.”

I frown at him.

“Let’s say, Mycroft’s field of work proves to be helpful sometimes.”

“I thought you never asked your brother for help.” 

“Sometimes even I have to make sacrifices for the greater good. Mr. Simon shouldn’t have to suffer longer than necessary.” 

I briefly wonder since when Sherlock cares about such things, but decide to let the topic rest. This case was probably one of the quickest he has ever solved. My help clearly wasn’t necessary, but it feels nice to be included nonetheless. I shift in my chair and watch Sherlock. There’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask him, preferably before my daughter arrives. I clear my throat and brace myself. It’s gonna get awkward, but I have to know.

“Sherlock, I wanted to ask you something. On your birthday, we talked about the woman, among other things, and I gave you an advice to, well, make a move, basically.” Sherlock doesn’t say anything. “Did you…?”

“Did I what?”

“Phone her, meet her, or something.”

“No.”

“Why not? You like her, don’t you?”

“Why can’t you let the topic rest?” Sherlock stares at me, his eyes now shining with anger.

“I want to know, okay. I’m your best friend! This is what friends talk about.”

“Fine. I like her. She’s an interesting person. I don’t want to see her or ‘make a move’. Is there anything else you want to know?”

Why doesn’t he want to see her? He saved her life! It doesn’t make any sense. 

“At least tell me why you don’t want to do that,” I reply.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. I should probably let it rest. It’s not like he owes me an explanation, or anything. I’ve been a shitty best friend lately, as a look into his eyes painfully reminds me.

“Because I’m simply not interested in her in that way. Never have been and never will.”

This whole topic is frustrating. Usually, Sherlock gives more information than anyone wants to hear during his deductions, but with this particular topic he’s always shut himself down. Irene Adler is beautiful, she’s intelligent and intriguing. If Sherlock doesn’t want to make a move there can only be so many possible explanations. Maybe it’s because she’s a woman.

“Okay. Sherlock, just one more thing. Have you ever been interested in anyone in that way?”

“Yes, John, I have. Now can we please let it rest?”

_What?!_ I was definitely not prepared for this answer! Why didn’t he ever tell me? How can I let the subject rest now?

“But who –”. The doorbell interrupts my next question. Sherlock sighs and stands up at once, obviously glad to have an excuse to leave the conversation. I hear him talk to Molly downstairs. Maybe he’s interest in her, I briefly wonder. I’ll probably never know. I walk down to see Sherlock with Rosie in his arms. I thank Molly again for babysitting but can’t take my eyes off of Sherlock and my daughter. My heart does a little jump at the sight. God, I must have missed her more than I thought.

Upstairs, I take Rosie from Sherlock’s arms and ask her about her day. She hasn’t really uttered words yet, apart from the occasional ‘da’. It probably has to do with the loss of her mother. I always see Mary in her, she looks so much like her mother. And she’s not even going to remember her. I feel my throat tighten at the thought of it, and try to think of something else to distract myself. These feelings are never going to go away, just as the guilt of the text affair and everything that went wrong in our marriage is never going to go away. I cannot change what I did in the past, all I can do is try to be better in the future. 

_Well, then, John Watson. Get the hell on with it._

It was the last thing Mary ever said to me. Well, not technically, because that was my imagination of her. But I feel like it’s what Mary would’ve said if she knew. 

Rosie starts playing with my hair and I sit down with her on the floor. It’s more comfortable for her down here. Sherlock joins us with the toys he keeps in the flat, and we play with Rosie for a bit. It still feels unusual to do these things with Sherlock, but he’s getting better at it. When he uses the voice of a bear to talk to Rosie with one of the teddies, I can’t help but smile. A few months ago, this seemed impossible. Sherlock has played with Rosie before, obviously, when Mary and I were so exhausted we fell asleep on the couch, for example. He keeps calling Rosie ‘Watson’, I noticed. Somehow I find it endearing. 

Watching Sherlock play with Rosie I feel a familiar stab of guilt. One of the worst things about Mary’s death is that I can’t even wish she hadn’t jumped in front of the bullet. If she hadn’t, Sherlock would’ve died. Mary probably saved his life because she knew that I couldn’t lose him again. She met me when I was grieving Sherlock and, even though the worst part had already been over, I was still a wreck. She put me back together, gave me a reason to enjoy my life without Sherlock. Nevertheless, she must’ve thought that I couldn’t go through that again, and instinctively took the bullet for him. Why else would a mother and wife save the life of someone who was far from having any of that? 

“John? I think Rosie is hungry.”

“Oh, yes, sure.” I search through the bag Molly brought for a second. “Dammit, Molly forgot the pap. I think I need to run down to Tesco’s.”

“No, actually I happen to have some in the kitchen.”

I can’t help but frown at my friend who’s currently trying to ‘catch’ Rosie with the teddy. Rosie crawls into my lap and I feel proud. She started crawling when she was six months old already. I take her in my lap and give her a kiss on the head.

“Do you really? That’s… nice. Thanks.”

Sherlock waves his hands dismissively. “Well, I was grocery shopping and they were a special offer.”

“Okay. I’ll go warm it up then.”

“No, let me do it.” Sherlock says while getting up from the floor and heading into the kitchen. For a man almost in his forties, he shouldn’t be able to get up from that sitting position so easily, I notice with slight jealousy. I watch him open a drawer and retrieve a glass of baby food as well as a sauce pan. _Our monster._ Rosie starts crying almost reproachfully, and I return my attention to her.

***

After feeding Rosie in the highchair Sherlock keeps at Baker Street, I realise that it’s gotten quite late. Rosie definitely needs to sleep. I close my eyes and touch the bridge of my nose thinking about going back outside and on the tube. We don’t even have a stroller, so I’ll have to carry her all the way to the station.

Sherlock must’ve read my mind. He’s looking at me when I open my eyes again. 

“John, you don’t have to go back outside.”

“Well, it’s gotten quite late. Sorry we can’t stay longer, but I’m afraid Rosie needs her sleep, and I’m quite tired, too.”

Sherlock leans in a bit closer in his chair. “I meant that you can stay.”

_Oh._

“Really?” 

“Only if you want to, of course. Rosie can sleep in the crib Mrs. Hudson got her for Christmas. You still haven’t picked it up.”

“Oh, yeah, I completely forgot about the crib. Er, sure, I mean if you’re okay with it. It’s Friday, so I’m free tomorrow anyway.” I shrug with my shoulders and pretend it’s not a big deal. It really shouldn’t be, but somehow it is. 

“Okay. Good.” Sherlock gets up and takes Rosie into his arms. When he rocks her back and forth to try and stop her from sobbing, I can’t help but think back to what Mrs. Hudson told me at the therapist’s house. _But if Sherlock Holmes dies too, who will you have then?_ How bloody right she was.

I follow Sherlock, who carefully carries my daughter upstairs. He places her inside the crib which, I notice with slight confusion, already contains some fresh bed sheets. My bed is made, as well, but the room looks empty without my stuff in it. I look at the white walls without pictures and the empty cupboards and somehow it still feels more like home than my own flat. Once Sherlock places Rosie down, I see him touch her cheek fondly and my heart jumps. Who knew Sherlock could be so tender?

“I’m sorry I don’t have any clothes for her here,” he whispers. We’re both standing next to the crib, watching Rosie, who is already half asleep.

“It’s fine. She can sleep in those for one night. She’s perfect, isn’t she?

“It would seem so.”

“And I’m not biased, am I?”

“No, it’s scientific fact,” Sherlock says and I look over at him. His eyes are resting on Rosie. “I’ll go to bed then,” he adds.

“You’re actually going to bed?”

“No, probably not. But you should.”

I have to giggle. I can see Sherlock’s smile even in the dimly light of the room. 

“Thanks. For letting us stay.”

“Anytime, John.” With that, he leaves and closes the door behind him.


	8. 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of a sudden, a million pieces I never understood come together in my mind. I can see the images clearly. Sherlock claiming being married to his work. Irene saying ‘Look at us both’. Sherlock playing sad music on Christmas. Mine and Sherlock’s dinner at Angelo’s on our one-year anniversary. Sherlock being jealous of my girlfriends. Sherlock calling me his conductor of light. Sherlock saving my life over and over again. Sherlock’s words before he jumped. Sherlock begging me for forgiveness. Sherlock’s expression when he realised he was my best friend. The stag night. Sherlock calling me the bravest, wisest and kindest human being. Sherlock leaving my wedding early. Sherlock shooting Magnussen to save my wife. Sherlock’s look when he said ‘Sherlock is actually a girl’s name’. Sherlock forgiving Mary for shooting him. Sherlock helping me set up Rosie’s nursery. Sherlock allowing me to hit him because he thought he deserved it. Sherlock treating Rosie like his own daughter. Sherlock pointing a gun at his own brother and not me. 
> 
> Sherlock offering me to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whuuups, so I guess this chapter is longer than all of the other ones together, sorry.  
> In 2017, the pieces finally fall together for our confused John ;)

I wake up from a weird dream that I forget immediately. I sit up in bed and automatically look over at Rosie’s crib. She seems to still be asleep. I lay back down and stare at the ceiling of 221B. It felt natural to move back in after everything that happened with Sherlock’s sister. I spent most of my time at Baker Street, anyway, and kept going back and forth between my flat, the clinic and this flat. Rosie babbles in her sleep and I notice it with a heavy heart. She’s going to be two years old in May, which is still a semi-appropriate age for a parent and a child to share a room. At the age of four and five and thirteen, however, it’s not going to be. I keep wondering what I’m going to do about it. Maybe I can sleep on the couch, at first, and when Rosie’s old enough she can move to 221C. I can already feel the back pain thinking about sleeping on the couch for the next 16 years. It’s not really an option. 

The other option that I sometimes allow myself to think of is also quite unlikely. I could – hypothetically speaking – move into Sherlock’s room and leave my room as the nursery. Of course that’s never gonna happen, so I better spare myself the time of thinking about sharing a bed with Sherlock too much. 

Even though there’s still a lot to figure out, I’m glad that we moved back here. Baker Street always felt like home to me, and since October I’ve been feeling a lot less lonely and a lot more content with my life. It may sound cheesy, but it’s where I belong. Mary’s flat was great, but it always felt more like Mary’s flat than my own. When she died, everything reminded me of her. It was like the flat was haunted by her somehow. I could never have gotten myself to bring a date to the flat, not that I would’ve wanted to. I haven’t dated anyone since Mary’s death. At first, the incident with Sherlock’s sister creeped the hell out of me, then I didn’t want to date anyone and now I want to date the wrong person. 

I turn around and look for my watch. It’s still a bit early to get up on a Sunday but I can already hear Sherlock downstairs. He must feel restless, because he hasn’t had a case in weeks. The time in between cases has improved significantly, but he still needs the thrill of the chase. Since Rosie and I moved here, Sherlock has banned all his experiments from the kitchen to his bedroom. The flat was already baby-proof before, and he only did experiments in the kitchen when Rosie wasn’t there (and immediately cleaned up afterwards, to my joy), but now he keeps all his stuff in his bedroom. I can hear him rummaging around with his lab supplies, he must still be working on the carpet-blood reaction experiment. Sherlock has gotten a bit slower with his experiments, although that’s mainly because of my daughter. 

When I started going back to work after moving in, Sherlock insisted on taking care of Rosie. He said it was unnecessary for me to hire someone to watch her if he could do it just as well. He was right of course, but I didn’t want to steal all his free-time and occupy him with a toddler. Sherlock, however, surprised me by telling me that he wanted to take care of her and that he liked spending time with little Watson. He still calls her Watson, sometimes, although I don’t think she likes it. Rosie refuses to call Sherlock by his name, she only ever utters an incomprehensible combination of vowels at him. I think it’s because Sherlock is still too difficult to pronounce, Sherlock thinks it’s because she secretly doesn’t like him. If he knew how wrong he is. Rosie adores him, probably even more than I do. It’s ridiculous.

My thoughts swirl around for another couple of minutes, until I finally decide that I won’t find any more sleep. I get up and check on Rosie, who’s still fast asleep. I smile and make sure the baby monitor is turned on before leaving the room to go downstairs.

***

“Sherlock?” I knock on his door. 

Sherlock makes a humming sound of approval, so I enter. My best friend is sitting on his bed with his knees crossed. His hair is a mess from a (probably sleepless) night and he’s wearing a camel coloured dressing gown. I feel the almost familiar jump in my heart upon seeing him, although I haven’t gotten used to it yet. In front of him there are about twenty different rug samples in different shapes and sizes. He has a pipette filled with dark red liquid in his hand and carefully places a couple of drops onto the carpets. 

“Still not finished with Ikea?” I ask.

“I was but then I had to start over. The Ikea rubs are all rubbish, but it’s what most people have.” He makes a frustrated sigh and turns his head to look at me.

“Why are you awake already?”

“I dunno… I couldn’t sleep. Do you want some tea?”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll be out in a minute.”

I leave towards the kitchen and turn the kettle on. Sometimes it feels like nothing has changed, when in reality everything has. It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment it started, considering everything we’ve been through. As every morning, I see the picture of Rosie, Sherlock and me on the kitchen wall. Mrs. Hudson took it last Christmas when she found out that there was no picture of the three of us. Sherlock obviously hated the idea but agreed nonetheless. The picture turned out quite nicely. Rosie is sitting in my lap and Sherlock is bending down from the side, touching her little arm with his huge hand. We took several photos, some where we all smile into the camera, some where Rosie prefers to look at Sherlock’s hand. In the end, I wanted to frame the picture where Sherlock and Rosie both look at the camera and I look at their joined hands. My little family.

Sherlock enters the kitchen yawning. He’s still wearing his camel dressing gown. I hand him the mug and we sit down in our chairs. 

“Do you have any plans for today?” he asks.

“Well, I thought we could go to the park again. Rosie really seemed to like the swing last time. Do you want to come?”

I can’t hide my good mood. Maybe that’s because of today’s date.

“Sure. This experiment is quite frustrating. I think I need to take my mind off it for a while. Rosie is still asleep?”

“Yeah, I think not taking a nap yesterday in order to learn the Greek alphabet might’ve been a bad idea.”

“That was a wonderful idea!” Sherlock protests. “It can come in very handy during cases.”

I have to giggle at the thought. Rosie at a crime scene, examining a body like Sherlock. 

“You really want to teach her _The Science of Deduction_?”

“Of course. How else is she going to replace me as the only consulting detective in the world?” Sherlock frowns. 

We talk a bit more about the possibilities of Rosie’s future, until I hear her cry from the baby monitor. As I’m about to get out of my chair, Sherlock places a hand on my shoulder and pushes me back down. 

“I’ll get her.”

I should’ve known. For some reason, Sherlock loves putting Rosie to bed and getting her up in the morning. A couple of months ago I noticed that the two of them developed their own little ritual. Even though I was a bit jealous at first, I mostly find it endearing. A couple of years ago, if someone would’ve told me that Sherlock would be this caring about a child, I wouldn’t have believed him. After Mary’s death, it seemed impossible that he’d ever be able to do all of these things with Rosie. Now he’s almost like a father to her. He spends most of his days with her and only leaves for cases occasionally. When we go on a case, we leave Rosie with Mrs. H., Molly or Greg. They’re all wonderful with her and she loves spending time with them. Nevertheless, I always see the happiness on her face when she sees Sherlock. He’s definitely her favourite. 

***

After Rosie’s breakfast we decide to leave for the park. It’s quite cold outside, but sunny, which is a nice replacement after all the rain in the last couple of days. Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister, so she can’t come along. We walk to the park with Rosie in the stroller, and once we arrive Sherlock takes her directly to the swing. I watch them from the bench and smile every time Rosie giggles and pedals with her tiny feet. Sherlock pushes her and helps her down once she’s had enough. They play in the sand for a while and I join them. Even though it’s freezing outside, the sand is still ductile. Rosie and I build a sandcastle for Sherlock and bake sand cakes. When I can’t possibly bend my knees any longer, I return to the bench and watch Sherlock play with my daughter.

After a couple of minutes, he takes her hand as she decides to walk over to me. Rosie doesn’t seem content, sometimes she prefers to walk without help. Sherlock lets go of her hand and searches my eyes. He’s still quite insecure when it comes to these things. I nod as if to say ‘It’s fine, she can walk on her own’ and in that exact moment, she stumbles and falls. I see the panic on Sherlock’s face and run towards them. Rosie immediately starts crying, probably more from shock than real pain. I hold my arms open but as I’m about to pick her up my daughter turns towards Sherlock and screams “Papa!”.

I stop and turn to look at Sherlock. He seems frozen, unable to move or speak. His mouth is half open and his face reminds me a lot of when he first found out he was my best friend. 

“John?” he finally asks.

“Help her up, she wants you,” I reply, trying to sound encouraging.

Sherlock gently picks Rosie up from the ground and rocks her in his arms. She calms down and eventually stops crying, but keeps weeping a little. 

In retrospect, I should’ve known that this was bound to happen. She refused to call him Sherlock because he’s like a father to her. I briefly wonder where she picked up the expression. She’s always called me daddy. Sherlock takes her back to the bench and I follow them. I haven’t really seen his face, and desperately hope that he won’t freak out.

“Rosie, everything’s fine,” I hear him murmur into her neck. He sits down on the bench with Rosie still in his arms and I take a seat next to them.

“It’s alright, honey. Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Is everything alright?” I ask.

“Of course, John.”

I exhale a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. I should probably feel jealous, but I don’t. If anyone apart from me has been like a father to Rosie, it’s Sherlock. He’s been with her on her birthday, when she was sick, on Christmas, when she couldn’t sleep at night and when she needed a companion to play with during the day. The truth is, Rosie probably won’t remember Mary. I try to keep her mother in her memory, but childhood amnesia makes it difficult. Sherlock, on the other hand, is going to be there for Rosie for the rest of her life. 

_… and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that._

I need to talk to Sherlock. If he wants to be her father, I’ll gladly let him. If Rosie is destined to grow up without a mother she can have as many fathers as she likes. And Sherlock’s definitely not the worst choice.

I watch Rosie in Sherlock’s arms and have to smile. For a moment, I allow myself to lean closer towards Sherlock and stroke Rosie’s head. Her blonde curls have grown quite a bit lately, which somehow makes her hair look like a mixture of Mary’s and Sherlock’s. Suddenly, I feel a squeeze on my hand and look up. Sherlock is staring at me with a curious expression. When his blue eyes find mine, I can see the brown dot in his left eye and it feels like my heart skips a beat. He’s so close that our noses could almost be touching. I risk a look down at his heart-shaped lips and immediately stare back into his eyes. I can even feel his breath on my face and it sends a shiver down my spine.

“Papa? Wanna go home?” 

Sherlock clears his throat and the moment is gone.

“Sure, Rosie, we can go home.”

As we stand up, a woman on the bench next to us addresses me.

“What a lovely little family you have. Your daughter looks just like your husband!”

“Oh, well, we’re not…” Husbands? Lovers? Two guys who have spent the last seven years together and now raise a child together? I can feel Sherlock’s stare on my back.

_Damnit._

“Yeah, thank you,” I reply instead.

***

Back at the flat, Sherlock brings Rosie up for a nap. When he returns to the living room, I hand him a mug and we sit down in our chairs again. It’s almost like our little Sunday afternoon routine. I’d usually grab a book now or watch crap telly with Sherlock. Now, however, I crease my brows and examine my best friend’s expression. It seems neutral, like usual. 

“We should talk about this,” I start.

“Yes. I’m so sorry, John.”

“What? What are you apologising for? Wait a second, you don’t still have that goose liver from Tuesday hidden, do you?”

“What? No, no. I meant because of earlier. I don’t know why Rosie said that and I just – ”

“There’s no need to be sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowns at me.

“Look, she can call you Papa if she wants to, it’s fine by me.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

I can see Sherlock’s face brighten up. He seems genuinely pleased.

“Okay. I hope it won’t change anything between us.”

The gentle stab in my heart returns at his words. Of course he wouldn’t want anyone to think we were a couple, let alone become one. I clear my throat.

“No, of course not.”

“It’s just, the woman at the park seemed to think that…and I don’t want people to get the wrong impression when Rosie calls me Papa.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock.”

“Are you sure? People might talk.”

Slowly, I’m starting to feel angry. Sherlock had better shut up sooner or later.

“Since when do you care so much about what people think or say?” I ask.

“Well, I don’t. But I know that you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“You don’t want us to be mistaken for a couple, John.”

_You have no idea._

“Oh and you would know what I want, wouldn’t you? That’s so typical of you. The great Sherlock Holmes, knows everyone better than they know themselves.”

“That’s not what I meant. Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes, I am. And I get the impression you don’t want people to think you have a family.”

For a moment, I can see a flicker of hurt in his face.

“You know that’s not true. And there’s no need to shout, John.”

“I can shout however bloody much I want to,” I yell. “Has it never occurred to you, that I –” I stop myself before I say something I’m gonna regret. 

“You know what, forget it.”

I stand up and head towards the door. I need to get out of here before I do or say something stupid. “I’m going out. Make sure Rosie wakes up in an hour.”

With that, I slam the door and rush outside, leaving a sulking Sherlock behind.

***

I head straight to the cemetery. The air has changed into a slight breeze, so I turn my coat collar up like Sherlock always does. He and his damn cheekbones. None of this would’ve happened if he weren’t so ignorant about other people’s feelings. And his own. 

The cemetery is quite empty for a Sunday afternoon. I turn left to Mary’s grave and stop in front of it. I forgot to buy flowers, but the old ones from last week still seem fine. I’ve made a habit of visiting her grave once a week, usually with Rosie. I tell Rosie about Mary when we’re here (although I leave out the not-quite-children-appropriate-assassin-stories). Rosie often asks me about her Mummy, and that’s when I usually improvise because there’s so much I didn’t know about her, or don’t want a two-year old to know. Now is one of the rare occasions that I’m here alone, and I figure I might as well use the opportunity.

“Mary?” I whisper. Having done this at Sherlock’s grave before makes talking to a tombstone a lot easier. 

I take a deep breath. “Mary, I still don’t know whether you can hear me. I never asked Sherlock when he returned from the dead. Anyway, I need to tell you something. When I last saw you, I told you that I wanted more with that girl from the bus, who later turned out to be Sherlock’s crazy sister - but that’s another story. Since then I haven’t wanted more with anyone for a long time, but now… God, I can’t believe I’m about to say it out loud… I am in love. I haven’t told anyone, but I wanted you to know. It’s not like anything’s ever gonna happen, so I might as well tell my wife about it. I think deep down you always knew…”

_I know what you could become._

I clear my throat before I continue. “I know it’s stupid to fall in love with someone who doesn’t feel things that way, but I couldn’t really do anything about it. It just happened. I hope you’re not mad at me. Okay. Well. Thanks for listening…”

I take a step forward and place my hand on the cold stone. Mary’s always going to be a big part of my life, but in the last two years I found myself thinking about and missing her less and less. As cruel as it sounds, time really does heal every wound. And it’s not like we were the perfect couple when she died. I step back and leave the graveyard without looking behind.

On my way back, I think about the fight Sherlock and I just had. It wasn’t really a fight, only me being frustrated and screaming at him. Why does he think that I care about what people think? As far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a flying fuck if people mistake us for a couple. Well… 

_Listen to me, I am not gay!_  
We’re not a couple!  
I’m not actually gay. 

Okay, I’m starting to get why Sherlock would think that. In the past, I reminded everyone I met about my heterosexuality. But I thought he understood that that was more of a defence mechanism. Sherlock is the most intelligent man in the world, after all. Apart from that, I’m not the same man I was six bloody years ago. Maybe I should talk to him about that. If that’s the reason he’s afraid of Rosie calling him Papa, I should repeat that it’s not a problem for me. That’s the least I can do.

***

I return to Baker Street and see Mrs. Hudson’s suitcases in the hallway. Apparently, she’s back from her trip and playing with Rosie. I knock on her door and see her sitting at the kitchen table with my daughter.

“Oh John, dear, how are you?” she asks upon seeing me.

“Er, I’m fine. How was your trip, Mrs. Hudson?”

“It was lovely! I had a great time with my sister. But I’m glad to be back with little Rosie.”

“Daddy, Nanna, look!” Rosie interrupts us.

“I know, love, Nanna is back.” I can see Mrs. Hudson’s bright smile at the mention of her nickname. We decided to introduce her as Nanna to Rosie, because a toddler couldn’t possibly call her ‘Mrs. Hudson’ as well.

“Would you mind watching her for a little longer? I need to talk to Sherlock.”

“Of course, dear. The little girl and I have a lot of catching up to do, anyway.”

“Thanks,” I say and place a kiss on Rosie’s head before heading upstairs.

“Good luck John!” 

Upstairs, Sherlock is playing the violin. He’s facing the window and is lost in the sound of his instrument. Sometimes I could lose myself in it, too. He’s playing something unrecognisable but incredibly beautiful. When he tilts his head back, his curls fall onto the nape of his neck, and I have to fight the urge to touch them. 

“Sherlock?”

He stops playing immediately and turns around. 

“John.”

“Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Sure,” he replies, placing the violin back in its case. 

“Listen, I really don’t mind if people think you’re Rosie’s dad.”

“Then why did you run away again?”

“Again?”

“Oh come on, John. Don’t play stupid. It’s what you do all the time.”

“I didn’t run away! I just needed some air.”

“That’s not what you needed. You needed your triumph. It happens all the time when we fight. You just leave me alone with my thoughts, and you know how dangerous that can be, but you do it anyway.”

“It’s not my triumph! I just needed time to think, okay?! That’s what people do!” I feel myself getting angry again. “I expect you to understand, you _always_ need time to think!”

“I don’t need to think about us. I just think about whether the brother-in-law could be the murderer or not… And I do it on the couch!”

“Oh, well, I’m glad to hear that you don’t need to think about us. You’ve got it all figured out,” I say and stretch the ‘all’ for emphasis.

“Urgh,” Sherlock groans. “You can be such an idiot sometimes. If I didn’t love you, I might as well kill you right now!”

_What??!_

For a second, my brain is unable to form coherent thoughts. _WhatSherlockloveswhommewhywhatwhat?!_

Sherlock’s face is completely blank. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak, he only stares at me. 

“What did you say?”

“Nothing… I meant, er, as a friend –”

“No, Sherlock, seriously. What do you mean?”

“Okay, John. Please don’t freak out.” He makes a gesture with his hand that is supposed to calm me down. 

“You love me?!”

“I’m so sorry, John. I - I can deal with it, okay? Just forget it, please.”

All of a sudden, a million pieces I never understood come together in my mind. I can see the images clearly. Sherlock claiming being married to his work. Irene saying ‘Look at us both’. Sherlock playing sad music on Christmas. Mine and Sherlock’s dinner at Angelo’s on our one-year anniversary. Sherlock being jealous of my girlfriends. Sherlock calling me his conductor of light. Sherlock saving my life over and over again. Sherlock’s words before he jumped. Sherlock begging me for forgiveness. Sherlock’s expression when he realised he was my best friend. The stag night. Sherlock calling me the bravest, wisest and kindest human being. Sherlock leaving my wedding early. Sherlock shooting Magnussen to save my wife. Sherlock’s look when he said ‘Sherlock is actually a girl’s name’. Sherlock forgiving Mary for shooting him. Sherlock helping me set up Rosie’s nursery. Sherlock allowing me to hit him because he thought he deserved it. Sherlock treating Rosie like his own daughter. Sherlock pointing a gun at his own brother and not me. 

Sherlock offering me to stay. 

“Wh- what? Why? Why did you never say anything?” It’s the first question that comes to my mind.

“I meant to tell you so many times, but I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. Are you mad at me?”

“Mad? Why would I be mad at you?” I have to giggle. For a second, I think I’m going to hyperventilate. I have to take a deep breath. Sherlock LOVES me. Sherlock loves ME.

“Sherlock, you can be such an idiot sometimes,” I say, and before I can change my mind, I step up to him and press our lips together. I close my eyes and hear a shocking sound from Sherlock that overcomes the lack of air between us. After that, Sherlock leans into the kiss. I grab his neck with my free hand and taste black tea on his soft lips. Sherlock pulls me closer and tucks his right hand into my hair. I slowly open my mouth to deepen the kiss and Sherlock groans. It feels glorious, better than I ever imagined. When we finally pull apart, I open my eyes to find Sherlock’s still closed. He slowly opens them and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so vulnerable.

“Was that… alright?” I ask.

“Y... yes of course. But John…?” Sherlock stutters.

“Shhh. Can we talk later?” I whisper.

“Sure, John, I – ”

“Just shut up, Sherlock,” I say and kiss him again. This time it’s rougher and more passionate. Sherlock opens his mouth and deepens the kiss. I realise that we’re still standing in the living room, so I start to move us over to Sherlock’s bedroom. We keep kissing as we stumble towards it, and somehow there’s still too much space between us. When we finally reach the bedroom, I close the door with my foot and practically slam Sherlock up against the door. He makes a gloriously surprised sound that is music to my ears. I can feel my erection pressing into his. It feels different at first, but glorious. Sherlock’s hands are all over me; he touches my hair and pulls on my shirt. Suddenly I remember that this is probably new territory for him, too.

“Sherlock? If you want, we can wait and take things slow.” _Even though I’d probably combust if we do._

“No,” he murmurs into the nape of my neck. “I’ve waited… seven years.”

“Good.” I decide to move things to the bed. Sherlock is tugging on my shirt again as we make our way to the bed. I pull it over my head and watch Sherlock unbutton his own. His eyes are fixed on me the entire time, his beautiful eyes that shine chartreuse in the dim light of the room. He leans closer and kisses me tenderly. God, how can he be so good at this? I shouldn’t even be surprised. This man is brilliant at everything. 

He pushes me down onto the sheets and crawls on top of me. His kisses wander from my mouth to my neck to my chest and keep going further down. Once he reaches my trousers, he stops. I tilt my head up and see the questioning expression on his face. I nod quickly and help him unbuckle my belt. Once my trousers are out of the way, Sherlock starts placing kisses down my cock.

“Oh god, John. You’re so beautiful.”

He keeps kissing my erection and simultaneously rubs his fingers over my balls. God, this isn’t gonna take long.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long,” he says before finally taking my length into his mouth. It feels bloody amazing. He slowly starts moving his mouth up and down and uses his hand to help him. He takes me inside his mouth so deeply I’m afraid he’s going to choke, but he doesn’t. I lean upwards to watch Sherlock. He seems to have noticed my shifting, because he looks up and stares into my eyes while sucking on my cock even harder. Jesus, I think I could come from the sight of this alone.

“Holy shit, Sherlock,” I manage to get out through gritted teeth. I lean back down on the pillow and grab the sheets.

He suddenly stops. “Did I do it wrong?” 

_Wrong?!_ I look back up. Sherlock is kneeling in front of the bed, his hands still around my shaft. 

“No, god no. You’re fucking _brilliant_!” 

Sherlock’s expression turns into a smitten smile for a second, before he focusses his attention back on my cock. He moves faster now, and after an embarrassingly short amount of time I can feel an orgasm building up inside me. My fingers grasp the cushions next to me and I can hear embarrassing sounds escaping my mouth involuntarily. 

“Sherlock, I’m…” is all I can bring out before I reach my climax. My hips thrust up and I can hear a distinct moan that might be coming from me or from Sherlock. Sherlock doesn’t stop sucking, so my release lands in his hot mouth. I look down at my best friend who’s eyeing me intensely.

“That was…”

“Amazing!” I finish for him. “Now come back up here.”

Sherlock slowly crawls back up and lies down next to me. I turn to face him and give him a deep kiss. He tastes like me and it turns me back on immediately. I’m more than glad to finally be able to touch his gorgeous curls. When I shift partly over his beautiful body, I realise that Sherlock is still wearing his trousers. His erection is pressing hard against the fabric, and I stop the kiss to reach down and remove them as fast as possible. I stop at his boxers for a second and tuck them down more carefully. His penis is overwhelming – long and thin just like the rest of his body. When I allowed myself to fantasise about this in the past, this has always been the only difficult part. I’ve never been with a man before and the question of what to do with another cock always scared me a bit. Now I realise that my worries were more than unnecessary. Sherlock’s penis isn’t just aesthetically pleasing, it’s also extremely arousing. I never thought I could feel this way about male body parts, but with Sherlock it all feels natural.

Sherlock gives me a curious look – I must’ve been staring at his penis for longer than considered appropriate. I clear my throat and focus my attention back to his face. 

“You’re beautiful, love.”

Sherlock seems to enjoy the praise. He plants kisses all over my face and I have to giggle. “Will you let me return the favour?” I ask.

Sherlock nods with gleaming eyes. I focus on his cock and start to stroke it with my fingers. Sherlock is already completely hard. Before speeding up I take three fingers and place them into Sherlock’s mouth. His eyes widen but he obliges and closes his mouth around them. He sucks on them gently and swirls his tongue around them. I could almost be getting hard again just from that. I retrieve my fingers from his mouth and close them around his erection, trying to wet it. I stroke his cock again, this time using a firmer hand and quicker motions. I hope to imitate what I like to be done to me as best as possible. Sherlock seems to be enjoying it. His eyes are open and fixed on me, and he moans with a deep voice. I kiss him again and I can already feel his penis twitching in my hands.

“John…” 

“Not yet, Sherlock,” I whisper and replace the wet hand with my other one. I guide one of my fingers further down, until I reach Sherlock’s ass. He shivers at the touch and groans. I enter him slowly, stretching him and opening him up as careful as possible. Once Sherlock feels comfortable, I add a second finger. 

“Oh John… oh god… John,” Sherlock nearly screams. 

I stroke his penis more quickly and move my fingers inside of him just a bit. I can feel his prostate, so I slide my finger against it and feel the body underneath me shiver. 

“Oh yes, Sherlock. Come for me.”

Sherlock comes immediately. He spurts all over his chest, and his orgasm keeps on going and going. Once he’s finished, I retrieve my finger from him and move back up to where Sherlock is lying.

“John, I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, look at that. The great Sherlock Holmes, speechless at last.”

He smiles. I place a kiss on his cheek and lie down next to him.

***

I didn’t even realise that I dozed off, until I wake up from a knock on the door. 

“Sherlock, dear, are you there?” Oh god, that’s Mrs. Hudson. She must be bringing Rosie up. Rosie. Jesus Christ. 

I open my eyes and find myself half spread out on top of Sherlock. He seems to just be waking up as well. He opens his eyes and for a second I lose myself in them. There’s another knock on the door, so I hurriedly jump out of bed to gather up my clothes. Sherlock does the same, and we get dressed in split seconds. I ruffle my hands through my hair to remove the ‘I just had sex’ messiness and open the door swiftly.

“Mrs. Hudson! Hey, Rosie!”

“John? Oh, John! We didn’t mean to… disturb you, but little Miss Rosie has gotten quite hungry.”

“Sure. Thanks, Mrs. H. I’ll take her. And thank you for taking care of her.”

“Anytime, you two,” she says and winks over at Sherlock, who’s throwing his camel dressing gown over his shirt.

“Daddy, Papa! Hungry!”

“I’ll make you some food, sweety.” I take her from Mrs. Hudson’s arms and straight to the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson leans close to me and whispers “Finally, John, I knew you two would come to your senses!” before leaving. All I can do is stare after her.

Sherlock enters the kitchen seconds later. “Well, that was close.”

“Papa!”

“Rosie, come here!” Sherlock smiles at our daughter who immediately wants to be in his arms instead. I let her down and prepare her favourite mash. Sherlock takes Rosie to the living room and starts jumping her up and down on the floor. The two of them seem to enjoy the bumping sound, and Rosie keeps screaming “Higher, higher!”. 

When the food is ready, I set up the kitchen table and place everything onto it. I heat up some leftover Thai food from yesterday for Sherlock and me. We sit down to eat and Rosie tells us about the games she played with Nanny. I feed her in her highchair and keep exchanging looks with Sherlock. We definitely need to talk later. When Rosie refuses to eat and throws her spoon over at Sherlock, who catches it but ends up with sprinkles of mash in his face nevertheless, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. 

After dinner, it’s already past Rosie’s bedtime. I take her to bed while Sherlock (miraculously) agrees to do the dishes. Once in our room, I realise while placing Rosie inside the crib next to my bed that I need to address another topic with my best friend. I give Rosie a kiss on the head and sing her a goodnight song. At the moment she’s more into songs than stories. She closes her tired eyes even before I finish the last stanza.

***

“Sherlock? Can we talk now?”

“Of course, John, although I wouldn’t mind a second interruption,” he states. I find myself going red at the suggestion.

“I… I realise that I didn’t reciprocate what you said before…”

“John, you don’t have to – ”

“But I want to.” I take a step closer to Sherlock, forcing him to lean back onto the kitchen counter. He's got the tea towel hung over his left shoulder and the sleeves of his dressing gown rolled up.

“I love you, Sherlock. I’ve loved you for a long time, but I was too scared. I didn’t know you felt the same way and I… I didn’t want to ruin our friendship either. But when the woman at the park earlier thought you were Rosie’s dad, I realised that that’s exactly what I want. You and Rosie are my family.” I take another step closer. 

Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on mine. He takes a deep breath before he says: “You and Rosie mean everything to me. You’re the only person in the world who really knows me and still accepts me for who I am. I never thought I’d be as lucky to find someone like you. I know we’ve been through a lot, but my feelings for you never changed.”

“We really have been through a lot, haven’t we? Do you realise that we met exactly seven years ago today? I can’t believe how much has happened since then. You completely turned my life around, Sherlock Holmes,” I say with a slight giggle to hide the profoundness of my words.

Sherlock places an innocent kiss on my cheek.

“So, does this mean when you said you once had feelings for someone… and when you said you miscalculated someone’s feelings for you… was that – did you mean me?” 

Sherlock nods and places a hand on my shoulder. “It’s always been you, John Watson.”

I can’t possibly wait any longer, so I lean forward and kiss him. How much time did we lose because of our insecurities? In the end, it really doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we finally figured it out. But there’s one more thing… 

Reluctantly, I pull away. Sherlock immediately leans closer to kiss me again, but I take a tiny step back.

“There’s one more thing we need to talk about. Could you imagine yourself sharing your bed with me?” I raise an eyebrow. Maybe it’s too soon for that.

“I think we’ve already done that, John.” He raises an eyebrow back in a somehow utterly seductive way.

“No, that’s not what I… well, technically yes, but… I meant something more permanently, actually.”

Sherlock’s face brightens. “Of course. You can stay as long as you like. I will always want you here with me.”

My heart seems to perform a backflip in my chest.

***

Later that night, I lay in bed next to Sherlock, who is already asleep and curled around me. Who would’ve thought seven years ago that that’s what we’d be doing today? Thinking back on the journey that brought us here, I realise that, even though we were stupid at times, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. What Sherlock and I have been through is what shaped us and, ultimately, what brought us together. Would my life have been easier, had Sherlock not jumped and faked his death? Certainly. But I probably wouldn’t have my beautiful daughter right now. Now, on the anniversary of meeting Sherlock exactly seven years ago, we’re finally in the right place, and I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time. 

I close my eyes, and smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story - some feedback would be greatly appreciated :)
> 
> [brainless_septiclock](https://brainless-septiclock.tumblr.com/) did a wonderful job not only betaing this fic but also helping me with the sex scene. As you might have noticed, I'm not a native speaker and was very insecure about this part, so her help was greatly appreciated.
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/tabea-johnlocked)


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